


Making December

by roliver4



Series: Like Vines We Intertwined. [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Car Accidents, Coma, Death, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Memory Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 155,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4929964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roliver4/pseuds/roliver4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year is just enough time for this group of friends who have seen so many struggles to come out either victorious or completely in shambles. After the tragic and explosive year they encountered before the countdown began, who could have ever guessed that things could get even more dramatic for our crew? But when everyone begins growing up and growing apart, old vices and new challenges arise that will test the limits of the group and push them to become stronger-- either together or apart.</p><p>SEQUEL TO LEARNING TO BREATHE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December: The year before

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to LEARNING TO BREATHE.  
> Thanks friends for making this happen!  
> CHECK OUT THE SOUNDTRACK: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4  
> ADD ME ON TUMBLR: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> add me on tumblr and let's hang out! http://shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com/
> 
> CHECK OUT THE PLAYLIST TO GO WITH THIS WORK: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4

**LEXA**

As the countdown begins, you friends hush each other only to succumb to the laughter that has filled this night. Much like the many nights before, tonight has been marked with drinking and games and fun and happiness, much in contrast for the days before you married Clarke Griffin. In fact, from the moment that you said “I do,” and kissed your bride, the brightness that emanated from her smile and her eyes filled your life again, bringing with it the blueness of hope and the security in knowing that you could take on the world, no matter what it threw at you. And although it did just that, threw things at you left and right, with Clarke near you, you felt stronger-- now more than ever. With the countdown continuing, your friends’ voices mesh into one crowd-mentality kind of shout, the one unified voice ringing you and your wife into the fourth month of your marriage and into a new year.

In fact, this countdown was ringing in a lot of things, not just for you and Clarke, but for your family as a whole.

Tris is moving to Kansas City to play on a professional soccer league next month, taking Roma and their German Shepard named Ryder that they adopted together right before you and Clarke’s wedding with them. This was huge for your baby sister who was offered the scholarship during her second semester that you stressed over which prompted the KC professional Women’s soccer team to begin scouting her. Not only did she graduate college in two and a half years, but she wowed the coach at KC and was asked immediately to join them as their new striker, all expenses paid.

Octavia is 6 months into her pregnancy and looking more radiant and glowing than ever. As her belly continues to grow, so does her sass, continuing with her quick wit and always keeping you in check. No matter what situation arises, she always texts you after an argument with Clarke and reminds you to apologize and be patient-- more so now in the last few weeks than ever before.

Lincoln has taken a job with the fire department in Macomb and the academy is booming, opening its second location due to the growth patterns and demands. Although the stress of being a business owner has seemed to take a toll on him, even through his exhaustion, he still finds it in him to make it to every family game night and get coffee with you and Tris every Monday morning to catch up.

Bellamy and Harper just moved into a house that they bought together last week and have already started arguing over paint colors and the purpose of rooms in their home. Although Bellamy ceased his therapy sessions, he’s seemed to adjust well, Harper helping him through many nights when you were unable to. The amount that he texts you asking for you or Clarke to talk him through a panic dwindles with each passing week, reminding you that your friend is healing… as the amount that you text him for the same reason dwindles as well, reminding you that you’re healing too.

Raven retired from the military a little over a month ago, taking a job in the Netherlands with some company named Arcadis NV and although she’s not really allowed to discuss the nature of her work, she has told you that she’ll be working in sustainability… and the man that she brought to your wedding is coming with her.

And on the topic of Kyle Wick, the floppy haired blonde finally began fitting in with your friends, participating in every game night and every weird experimental liquor creation brought by Jasper and Monty. It was a weird road for the salty and sarcastic pretty boy as your friends, although extremely welcoming, are a very particular group of people, but you can’t even remember what days before Wick’s satirical and asshole comments were like-- and you’d have it no other way.

Your mother-in-law moved to Macomb in order to be closer to you and your wife and has taken a job at the hospital, helping bring in more financial support from large, corporate donors and really putting Macomb on the map as far as medicine goes. Although you weren’t entirely enthused at first about Abby being so close, especially with the way that Clarke’s healing had been going, that soon changed when Abby stepped up to the plate, making herself known at every family game night and physical therapy session. Honestly, you can’t even imagine what life without Abby would be like right now-- especially with Clarke’s progress. Any progress that had been made was mostly thanks to Abby-- and for that, you owed her the world.

In fact, this New Year marks a year of change for everyone, but hopefully, it’ll mark a year of greatness-- at least that’s the feeling that your swaying, drunk heart is crying for.

Surrounded by those that you love most with the taste of liquor on your tongue and the feeling of Clarke’s body backed into yours, you pull her tighter, listening to the catch in her breathing as your hands find her hips. Sliding your thumb between her tight, fitted jeans and the skin of her stomach, the tips of your thumbs dance across the matching tattoo that her hip bones share with yours.

It’s been a little less than three months since the needle of a Canadian tattoo artist with purple hair painted the mountain range across your pelvis with blue and greens, marking each other permanently with the colors of the other’s soul-- the sky meeting the ground and blending as perfectly as her breathing with yours when she falls asleep in your arms.

It’s been just under three months since the same catch in her exhale that is breathing into your ear now serenaded your first night of marriage in the airport hotel the night before your plane left for Whistler,  B.C., leaving the drama of physical therapy and counseling far behind to be dealt with another day. And 2 weeks later, that battle began… first, in the form of cognitive therapy, pushing Clarke to remember the things that the coma stole from her. The first thing to come back was medical information: patient records, medication doses and spinal immobilization using a Kendrick Extrication Device… The treatment of intracerebral hematomas and the differences between male and female knife attack wounds. Things that didn’t even sound like necessary knowledge flooded her brain as she poured words out to you over dinner in your kitchen such as how many bones in the human body are disconnected (three-- as Clarke reminded you every day for a week straight) and what mnemonic device is used to collect medical history in emergency situations (which you can’t remember now to save your life…). To you, these little facts were useless… but to Clarke…

To Clarke, they were the world.

And the excitement that emanated from your wife when she remembered something for the first time made not having a clue what she was talking about worth it.

The second thing that started returning to her consciousness was the story of your break-up. Before she even remembered all of the great times that you shared, she remembered the worst. And before she could even tell you how therapy went, on day 27 with Adrian, she stormed into the home that you two built, shouting as her open palm met with your cheek, her words burning more than the palm print that she left across your face.

“You left me,” the words echoed, reminding you of your mistakes. Of course you did… and of course she remembered that, but you couldn’t let her win-- you never could. And so you followed up with more words only prompting more shouting as tears began to flow from both of you. She was stubborn, but that was a part of her-- one of the very many perfectly imperfect parts of Clarke Griffin-Woods that you loved… even if in that moment, love was the furthest thing from your mind. After hours of shouting and blaming each other for previous failures in your relationship, a broken vase, scattered papers and a pair of your car keys chucked through the open window into your backyard, she retired to the bedroom, leaving you wrapped up in a blanket on the couch to fall asleep on your own to only the sound of your phone which somehow found every terrible song ever created: your first huge fight. As Matt Nathanson sang out to you, you couldn’t help but hit the back button at the end of the song every time, replaying the words over and over again as the rage continued to surge through your body.

_So we lie here in the dark. All the wrong things on fire. In sickness and in health. To be with you, just to be with you._

“How could she blame me after everything?” you ask into the darkness, not even fully agreeing with the words coming from your mouth. Of course she could blame you-- you left. You’re just mad that you’re having to face it all again…

_In your wedding dress. To have and to hold. 'Cause even at my best. I wanna let go._

“I mean, I left… but she let me…” Rolling over onto your back, you fold your sore hands underneath your head, realizing for the first time that they’ve been clenched into fists for the entirely of the last few hours. With a slight chuckle, you wonder where you inherited this rage. I wasn’t your father’s and for definitely wasn’t your mother’s. You didn’t learn it from Toni and neither Tris nor Lincoln exhibited it as far as you knew. What made you so different?

_And you hold me in your arms. And all that I can see. Is my future in your hands. And all that I can feel. Is how long ever after is. It's all that I can do. To be with you, just to be with you_

“This song fucking sucks,” you finally decide, clicking the next button without any remorse. “We’re not getting a divorce, she’s just fucking mad.” As you brush your brown hair from your eyes, you pretend to listen to the next song that plays, not really even hearing it as the panic begins building up in your chest at the thought of losing Clarke. Weirder things have happened. People have gotten divorces over way less. What if, now that she remembered how much of an asshole you were, she chose to walk away? Could you blame her? I mean, you walked out on her…

But again, just like always, however, Clarke couldn’t just let it go and before the end of the night, she joined you as you laid on the couch, falling asleep with her head on your chest after her breathing steadied, her apologies ceased, and her tears dried.

The next memory that returned came while your sister and her girlfriend laid in your bed with you and Clarke, wrapped up in the comforter surrounded by the smell of extra buttered popcorn and Divergent playing on the television mounted on the wall across from you. At a slower moment in the film that Clarke had made you watch at least ten thousand times before, you glanced over at your wife, tears swelling in her eyes as she turns just slightly to meet your stare. Grabbing your hand, she brings it slowly to her lips; kissing your fingertips as the words “I love you,” exit her mouth at the same time they did for the first time over two years before. With a smile across your face, you pull your wife in, breathing in her scent, the smell of home, as you kiss the top of her head, silently thanking whatever god was out there for the moment that you were experiencing now-- and every day since she said “I do.”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ, can we not make it through one movie?” Tris hisses, a pillow extending from her hands to meet the side of your head. “You two are like goddamn rabbits… We’re still here!”

Roma’s cold feet connect with your bare shins as she shoves her toes under your legs, smiling back. She doesn’t talk much, but just like your sister, she knows all of the best ways to irritate the shit out of you…

And this was all part of it…

Part of being a family…

Part of falling in love…

Part of living your life…

After the stress of cognitive therapy began, the overwhelming anxiety of psychological therapy came flooding in, opening an entirely new world for you and your wife as you finally began processing the grief in your life. Day one, you were forced to explain your story to a complete stranger, omitting details as Melissa Knu, a small, blonde therapist only a year older than you scribbled notes across her clipboard, nodding through phrases such as “that must have been hard for you” and “can you tell me more about that.” Coming home to Clarke, at first, was a blessing after therapy days-- it was home-- but as you dove deeper into your troubles and the truth of many of your insecurities surfaced, Clarke found herself at the center of much of your anxiety and you found yourself unable to forgive her for the pain that you endured at the mercy of her brain. More words, more shouts, and a hole in the drywall accompanied Clarke’s migration to the guest bedroom as the slamming of doors and the blasting of music attempted to drown out the words of the other, but after the sixth week of bi-weekly sessions with Melissa, the root of your psychological trauma dissolved Clarke of all blame, allowing you to finally forgive her and allowing her to finally move back into your bed after two weeks. And she did that, holding you as you cried for days, processing your despair at last, understanding that the death of your parents-- all 3 of them-- affected you more than you ever though. It was also in these sessions that you learned that your greatest fear isn’t falling, but in fact, not being good enough. At first that didn’t make sense, but the more you thought about it, the more it clicked. You never did anything halfway and while you were afraid of falling… you were actually afraid of not finishing-- even if that meant falling completely. If you were going to succeed, you were going to succeed completely. If you were going to fall, you were going to fall completely.

And now, you find yourself here-- 30 seconds remaining in the best year of your life so far, surrounded by the most important people in your life, in a house that represents nothing but love with pictures lining the walls of the best times in your lives and your wife in your arms. As the blonde turns towards you, she pulls your arms tighter around her waist, leaning into your grasp even more. As her hips push against yours, you can feel her drunken swaying and hear the words “I love you,” flow from her tongue, entirely too close to your ears. With liquor coursing through your veins, the sounds of your friends begins to fade as the pounding of her heart against your chest echoes through you, louder than the rhythm of the countdown exiting your family’s mouths. Leaning in to kiss her, you smell the rum on her breath for a moment before she pushes a finger to your lips, pulling from you slightly and smiling. “Not yet,” she says after she’s leaned back in, her lips grazing the sides of your ear. And with that chill that runs up your spine, you hear her whisper the numbers as the group does, her body melting into yours more with each beat as your hands struggle to find somewhere to grab that won’t make you feel the urge to lock the two of you in your bedroom away from the group.

But it’s not working…

“5…”

You begin backing towards the hallway, pulling your wife by her belt loops with you as she still finds a way to grind her hips into yours.

“4…”

You reach the door, tugging her body against yours even more as your lips meet, the feeling of warmth flooding through your body from your chest.

“3…”

Her hands reach behind you, twisting the door knob that you’ve been struggling with as you kiss her passionately, filling her mouth with your tongue and tangling your hands in her hair.

“2…”

The door closes quickly behind her as Clarke pulls her brown long sleeve over her head, her soft skin leaning against you as you struggle with your own shirt, only joining her without your top after she helps you free your arms from it.

“1…”

She pushes you onto the bed, sliding her body on top of yours as her hands find the button on your pants and tugging at it slightly. “I want you to scream my name,” she drunkenly slurs into your ear before kissing you, sliding her hand into your pants and thrusting a finger into you gently before you can even speak, stealing the breath from your lungs as she kisses her lips to yours, muffling the gasp as it exits your mouth.

“Happy New Year!” you can almost hear the words coming from the room down the hall over the sounds of the two of you and your labored breathing, but nothing else really matters now-- except for the blonde who is sliding one leg over yours, leaning back to sit on your thighs as she lifts her arms over her head, taking her bra with them and tossing it to the side, smiling down at you before she leans in slowly to kiss you.

“Happy new year,” she whispers, the breath from her mouth sending yet another shiver through your spine and out of your toes before she nips slightly at the tip of your ear. Before you know any better, your hands grip her tightly, rolling her underneath you and you kiss her passionately, sliding one knee between her legs and pushing your bare hips into hers.

“Happy new year,” you repeat your reply, lacing your fingers into hers and pushing them onto the bed underneath her.

Happy New Year.

\---

**Octavia**

Honestly, you’ve given up on keeping up with Lexa and Clarke-- especially when liquor was involved or there was a room that could be locked for their use. It’s not that they fucked too much… I mean, a part of you doesn’t even believe that’s possible… It’s just… You’d rather not think too much about the moans exiting your best friend’s lips as her wife brings her to the edge of the earth… there’s just something slightly odd about it.

So when they disappear in the last 10 seconds of the year and you hear the door to their bedroom slam down the hallway, you don’t even question it, finishing the countdown with your husband’s arms wrapped around your waist.

This year….

This year was a rollercoaster-- and that was putting it lightly. Between you and your husband opening another academy, your pregnancy, Raven’s pregnancy scare, all of the changes occurring with everyone as a whole, and everything that occurred with Clarke and Lexa, you’re honestly surprised that everyone survived as well as they did, but you’re incredibly thankful for it… And you’re reminded of this when Lincoln’s arms tighten around your shoulders, pulling you into his kiss.

“Happy New Year!” he contributes to the shouting, swaying through the liquor as he thrusts a fist into the air, a wide smile spreading across his face.

Smiling back, you wrap your arms tightly around his waist, breathing in his scent and praying for an easier year.

It had to be easier.

Your family couldn’t take any more drama…


	2. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE'S CHAPTER 2 OF MAKING DECEMBER! Thanks so much for all of the great messages on tumblr! I'm really looking forward to things with this! 
> 
> don't forget to listen to the playlist: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4
> 
> and follow me on tumblr so we can chat and I can bounce ideas off of you!!! shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

\---

**JANUARY**

**CLARKE**

The pounding in your head escalates as the ringing from the phone to your right intensifies; basically screaming out into your ear the lyrics to you and Lexa’s new favorite song.

“Fallout! One more taste. One last time. I just can't help it.”

Reaching out in the direction of the intrusive sound, your hand struggles to find the phone as you swing wildly, knocking off everything but the phone from the nightstand.

“Clarke!” your wife groans from beside you, releasing her grip from around your naked waist and pulling the blankets over her head. “Stoppppp.” The brunette rolls away from you, pulling the blankets with her as she does, leaving you in the open.

“Lexa!” you basically shout in return, instantly regretting your volume level as the headache surfaces just above your eyeballs. Why do you do this to yourself? Every time you drink, you wake up with a splitting headache and in a pissed off mood, but still, every time, you drink. As you grab a stray corner of the blanket and pull, Lexa grumbles a reply, letting go just enough for you to cover your body before you attempt again to silence the phone that is still singing at you and your very hungover wife.

“Fallout! I need it all. Hanging from the edge of heaven.”

Just as your hand taps the screen, the sound stops with a small, yet memorable beep: Missed call.

“Jesus Christ,” the groan escapes your lips as you turn back to Lexa, throwing an unsteady arm over her shoulder, kissing the back of her neck. When she rolls her shoulders up, pushing your face from her neck, you pull her in tighter, feeling her soft, dark skin against yours. If this was what marriage is like all of the time, you can’t even begin to imagine why people get divorced. This is what heaven feels like. This is bliss.

“Missed it?” the brunette in your arms asks, her raspy morning voice making your toes curl with excitement as you offer a small ‘mhmm’, not even concerned with the phone to your right. In fact, right now, the phone was the furthest thing from your mind. Your fingertips dance down her side, resting on her hipbone that you use to pull her closer to you, grinding against her as your other hand slides under her, cupping her breast and pinching her nipple between your fingers gently. A small moan escapes her lips tangled somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, her hand reaching over her head to tangle itself in your blonde hair still somewhat in yesterday’s messy bun. Bringing your lips down from her neck to her shoulder, you pinch her olive skin between your teeth, kissing the new red mark that is already forming on the top of her arm. “Clarke,” she sighs, grasping at the back of your head before she turns into you. “Don’t forget, we still have company.”

You laugh, kissing her lips that still taste of last night’s mixed drinks and cigarettes as you remember the truth in her statement. In fact, there are at least 2 other couples in your house right now. Octavia and Lincoln took the first guest bedroom simply because when 1AM hit and Lincoln had yet to sober up, Octavia didn’t feel like driving his overly large truck for over an hour through corn fields and the wasteland that was Oklahoma to get home. Then there’s the living room and who knows who ended up crashing there. After you rejoined the party at about 12:45AM, everyone except for your mother was still present and it was only another 30 minutes before you dragged Lexa back into your bedroom after a dance party began and you could no longer stand the fabric between you two as her hips swayed against yours.  In the second guest room was probably Bellamy and Harper. You only guess this because that’s the room that they always stayed in and actually had clothing still in the drawers from last time they chose to visit you.

See, moving right outside of the city had its perks. First, your yard was huge… As in, your closest neighbors were this cute elderly couple who ran a small farm that produced nothing for 90% of the year, but they tried anyway in his overalls and her pink, floral grandma gardener pants. Second, you could have as many people over as you wanted and because the Underwoods were almost half a mile away, they couldn’t complain about the noise-- not that they would. Also, with the continuing talk of your future and of kids, both you and Lexa agreed that living outside of the city would be best for raising children-- but that wasn’t necessarily an immediate plan… not if Lexa had anything to say about it at least…

While avoiding the hustle and bustle of Macomb, if you could call it that, was nice, it did have its downsides. The first time you saw a coyote in person, you almost shit yourself. The wild dog showed similar sentiments as he looked up from your trashcan that was tipped over at the backdoor, dropping the remains of whatever meal he was eating before running away into the woods behind your house, leaving you in one of Lexa’s oversized t-shirts and your house slippers, holding a trash bag in your left hand and the flashlight in your right, terrified to move. There was also the issue that if something was to happen to one of you, any ambulatory service would take a year and a half to get out here-- but that’s what Lincoln was for. Surely, his sway with the fire department could pull some strings for you. Most of all, however, you hated how far from everyone you were. It took everyone an hour to reach your house from where they lived, but that didn’t stop them. Every Saturday, game nights commenced as usual, week 1 at your place, week 2 at Lincoln and Octavia’s house, week 3 at Harper and Bellamy’s, and week 4 back at yours.

“Mmm, that is true,” you say to her, continuing to kiss her. Your hands inch down her thighs, tracing circles over the scars that she no longer hides from you. She doesn’t flinch anymore when you touch them and Lexa now talks openly about her challenges, confiding in you when the darkness begins creeping in on her. Often times, it’s late at night when her brain is overly active and uncontrolled, wandering through the ‘What ifs’ that plague her more times than not, but more times than not, she can be reeled back to reality with your arms around her tight, holding her until she runs out of tears to cry-- and that’s an improvement from where you were months ago when her therapist pulled you both in, explaining that her depression was probably going to be a life-long battle with its highs and lows.

“So that means you’ll have to be quiet,” she says to you, kisses scattered between her words. With a quick smile, she flashes her perfect grin before rolling over on top of you. “I don’t think you have it in you, Griffin,” she mocks, holding your arms down by your wrists.

As you push your hips slightly into hers, she grins, leaning down into you and kissing your lips passionately, her tongue filing your mouth as she continues to hold your arms down. “I think,” you begin speaking between kisses, “You doubt my ability…” With a quick smile, you reach to nightstand beside your bed, grabbing the remote, one of the few things that you managed to not completely destroy in your attempts to silence the phone earlier, and push the red button on the top, turning on the speakers across the room to the first song on the playlist. “But just in case,” the explanation exits your mouth just as your lips meet hers again, your body rolling her under you.

_I'll run my fingers through your hair tonight. There's no one else, I'm sure of this. I need you now._

With your elbows resting on either side of her head, you run your fingers through her hair, kissing her lips and neck.

_I'll give you all of me. I'll make you mine. If you'll take me and make me your first in line, oh._

“I love you,” she whispers to you, fingertips dancing down your back to your hips. As her hands rest on your skin under the blankets, you can feel her pulse through them, patching with yours.

_I've made my home in your heart and your mind. And you laid your hands on my chest and you pointed home_

“I love you,” the reply comes, almost without thought. It’s so natural now-- to love and be loved by Lexa.

_I've seen you, I've kissed you. In two hours, I've missed you. I'll take it, I'll make it. I'll give you all._

“For Fuck’s sake you assholes! I tried calling but you’re never leaving the sex dungeon, are you?” Octavia screams, the banging on the door accompanying her voice while you and Lexa laugh, your head resting on her forehead. Of course Octavia’s awake… “I’m pregnant and I’m hungry and I’m tired of hearing you two get it on… Get up!” Listening closely to the sounds around you, you can vaguely hear Bellamy’s voice shouting at his sister through the multiple doors between you, but you can’t make out what he’s saying-- and it’s probably for the best.

“We should probably get up and humor our guests,” Lexa says with a smile, her nails scratching gently up your back. With a nod, you lean in and kiss her quickly before rolling off of her, taking the blanket with you and wrapping yourself into it before she can fight it. “Fuck, Clarke,” your wife groans, trying to reach out and failing to take your cocoon from you. “You’re an asshole…”

As you smile at her, dancing your way to the bathroom, you hear Octavia grumble through her banging on the door, “You’re both assholes, now let’s go!”

Yeah… If this was what married life was always like, you’re alright with it. This is okay.

_I'll give you all of me. I'll make you mine. If you'll take me and you'll make me your first in line._

\---

**TRIS**

Weekly coffee with your siblings had become your favorite event of your very busy weeks. Between practices and packing to move and meeting with contract officiators and helping Roma with the necessary changes to get her moved with you and finding time to actually date your girlfriend, one thing was always constant-- no matter how hectic anyone’s life was, weekly coffee always happened and your troubles were always left at the door. On these days, often times only 2 hours long, it was just you and your big brother and big sister, talking about life and love and religion and politics and anything else that came up. More times than not, conversation pointed to what your respective significant others were up to and what this week had in store for each of you, but without fail, every day, your siblings managed to pester you with whether or not you were ever going to propose to Roma… and today was no different.

“I’m just not ready guys,” you mumble into your stained white coffee mug, blowing some steam from your drink before taking a small sip, lowering the mug back down to the table. “There’s just too much going on.”

“Are you fucking kidding me… That’s the worst excuse ever,” Lincoln laughs, nudging your leg under the table. Lexa smiles in agreement, taking a drink from her water glass before speaking.

“I mean, Lincoln proposed to Octavia while Clarke was still struggling to remember anything…”

“Yeah, probably not my best move,” your brother laughs to your sister, pointing at her.

“Yeah, but Roma’s not pregnant and demanding it,” you remind him, nudging his leg back.

A smile exits his lips and you can tell by that particular grin, the sarcasm is coming. “As far as you know,” he sneers, turning his pointing to you.

“Touché,” you joke back, cocking your head to the side a bit.

Lincoln’s quick comeback is interrupted before it can even begin by the ringing of his cellphone on the table in front of you. Snatching it up quickly, he explains that it’s important before even checking the caller I.D., dismissing himself to walkway right outside of the coffee shop’s door, pacing as he speaks into the phone.

Turning your attention back to your sister, you smile in Lexa’s direction leaning in as she begins to speak, quieter than before. For the first few seconds, you don’t even hear the words coming from her mouth. Instead, you take it all in. A little over 3 years ago, you were struggling with the desire to not have a sister anymore as she struggled with the desire to not have a life anymore.  A little over 3 years ago, your life came to a screeching halt at a soccer camp that you don’t even remember when the coaching staff pulled you out and uttered the words “There’s been an accident at home.” A little over three years ago, you thought your life and soccer career was ended… You thought you lost Lexa. But here you were, watching as your sister radiated with life and love and hope while you prepared your body and mind for the pro league.

“Isn’t it amazing how things change?” you cut Lexa off, still not even knowing what she was saying, and leaning back in your chair, taking your mug to your lips as you do.

“I’m sorry?” She questions, the surprise written across her face. With her long brown hair framing her cheeks, you can see the smile beginning to form on the side of her lips as she leans back, posture mimicking yours.

“I mean, thinking about where we were three years ago,” you say between drinks of you coffee, glancing back to the window where you can still see your brother pacing, basically shouting into the phone-- probably a business call. Lincoln had been more on edge recently, but that’ll happen when you’re opening your second business in two years. Turning back to Lexa, you’re met with an unchanged expression as she waits for you to continue. “Like… we almost lost you.” And her face drops slightly. Even though the topic of her depression had become less taboo of a conversation point, it still wasn’t Lexa’s favorite talk to have-- nor was it yours. “And we could have lost each other…”

With a small snort and a shake of her head, your sister leans into you, placing her water glass on the table. “Lincoln wasn’t letting either of us go,” she reminds you with a quick glance over to your brother. “He’s like our dad like that.”

You nod, chuckling slightly at that statement. The best part of it wasn’t that she was right. It was that Keith, Lexa’s father… your father… was in no way, shape, or form biologically responsible for anything that had to do with Lincoln. But more important than biology was the way that your father and your brother interacted. On more than one occasion, you remembered hearing them argue about Lincoln’s behavior and hearing Lincoln scream something about your father not being his dad and having no say in what he does or doesn’t do. On more than one occasion, you remember riding in the backseat of the car while your father, Lexa and you drove from house to house, questioning Lincoln’s friend about whether or not they knew where he was. On more than one occasion, you remember stumbling across a conversation behind closed doors between your parents about Lincoln’s struggles, but you never understood any of it-- and still don’t. But on more than one occasion, you remember your father going into Lincoln’s room after visiting Lexa and before seeing you off for the night and the conversations that would always end with an “I love you dad,” and an “I love you, Lincoln” as a reply. Without fail, at the end of every night-- not matter what happened… no matter how upset they were with each other, your brother and father ended each day with love-- just as you all did.

And all that mattered now was that all three of you were here-- love and all.

After everything, all three of you are here.

But there’s still a part of you that wondered what your father meant when he said to your mother ‘He has his demons-- just like his father.’

“Did you ever meet Lincoln’s father?” you ask Lexa, taking her by surprise yet again.

With a cough and a sputter of the water that she had just taken from her cup, she looks back at you, sitting the glass down on the ring that had already been formed on the table. “No, why?” she asks, lining the bottom of the glass up perfectly with the condensation art work.

With a shake of your head, you offer her a small, “just wondering” while glancing back at your brother who was now making his way from the corner of the building, hands in his pockets and smile across his face as his eyes met yours through the window.

All that mattered now was that all three of you were here.

After everything, all three of you are here.

\---

**LEXA**

When Clarke comes through your front door, you can’t help but smile from the coffee table in the living room as you listen to her footsteps make their way through the hall. Your smile only widens when your wife turns the corner into the arched doorway, dropping her bag at the door frame and making her way to you, climbing into your lap and planting an immediate kiss on your lips. She was soft and warm, her tongue parting your lips as her hands push your shoulders back into the couch.

“Well hello to you too,” you joke quickly in between kisses, breath shallowing as she slides one leg onto either side of yours.

“I’ve missed you,” she mumbles as she moves her hands to the sides of your face, reminding you of the fact that it’s Tuesday meaning it’s actually been over 48 hours since you’ve seen her. With Clarke’s role at the hospital shifting under Abby’s new direction and your new work schedule, life has been almost too hectic to even see your wife… and that wasn’t going to get any better with the news that you had to offer when your reunion came to a conclusion.

“I’ve missed you,” you can’t help but smile, holding close to her hips, treading the tips of your thumbs along the elastic of her scrub pants. Tracing the outline of the mountain range across her hip bone, you stroke gently at the sliver of skin there before your hand skates its way across her back, meeting your other hand at her midline, locking fingers to hold her tight. “I want to talk to you about something,” you try to explain; her lips barely giving you space to speak between the kisses that she’s scattering through your mouth.

“Can it wait?” she asks of you, her hands sliding from your cheeks to wring circles behind your head as her elbows rest on your shoulders. Something about the way that she breathes the air out of your lungs, taking it with her before she moans slightly into your mouth brings you to forget what you’re even talking about for a moment before consciousness returns to you-- only to be stolen again when she pushes her hips into you, the roll of her body sending electricity through your arms. For a brief moment, you wonder if she can feel the shock as it exits your fingertips on her back.

Glancing up, your eyes meet hers and that’s when it begins. With her dancing blues piercing straight through you, you wonder if you had even seen colors before her. The world could have been black and white before Clarke walked into your life and into your nose with a cardboard box full of weighted vests and you would never know any different in this moment. Because staring into these pools of reflecting light and watching the artwork that is painted each time she blinks causes everything else to fade around you. Nothing else matters except for her.

And when she smiles at your inability to produce words, you can tell that she knows: She’s already won. “I thought so,” the chuckle exits her half smile as she pushes herself into you causing you to inhale and exhale quickly, digging your nails gently into the small of her back. Of course she’s won… she always wins.

“Fuck you,” you grumble as you pull her body down, rolling so her back is on the cushions of your Risane Natural Ikea couch that Clarke just had to have when you moved. Sliding one leg between hers, you’re suddenly okay with her decision again. And when a sharp exhale exits her lips into your ear, you’re more okay with it. And as her hands dance up the back of your shirt, pulling the t-shirt over your shoulders before making their way back down, dragging her nails over your bare skin, you regret ever doubting her decision making skills with this couch.

Lifting herself up onto her haunches, she lifts one arm to take the back of your head, tangling her fingers into your hair and dragging your head down to hers before she uses her other hand to grab your right hand, tugging your fingers from the cushion beside her head. “Please do,” she whispers, lips grazing your ears while her hand drags your fingertips to her pants line, tucking you into her clothing to feel her bare skin beneath.

As you slide a single finger into her, dominant Clarke who appeared in control of the entire situation since entering the room faded away with a simple gasp when her head fell back to the cushion, fingers still tangled in your hair. The other hand found its way up your arm, digging her nails into the top of your shoulder as if she was grasping for what little control had not melted from her body.

“Oh god no,” she complains when you pull your fingers from her, withdrawing your hand with a smile. “Why?” With another grin, you slide your body from the couch, knees to the hardwood floor that she fought so fervently against but ultimately gave into, as you pull her legs over the side of the couch, tugging the legs of her scrub pants to pull them to her ankles.

“Shut up,” you tell her as she laughs, running another hand through your hair while you remove the remaining cloth between you, grabbing her hips and pulling her to the side of the couch. As your mouth reaches her skin, you feel her back arch against your hands and hear the air flee from her lungs, entering the atmosphere in one solid gasp.

Yeah… the couch wasn’t your worst investment… not at all.

\---

**BELLAMY**

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” your words almost echo through the stone walls and wooden floors of your old roommate’s house when you enter the living room on her day off bearing beer and supplies for tacos as promised. Perhaps you should have sent a text first and spared the three of you this awkward moment, but what’s done is done and it’s not like it’s the first time that you’ve seen Clarke’s naked upper half.

Not the first time by far…

In fact, through the entire three years that you and she lived together, you probably saw her boobs more than anyone else’s. Saturday nights were family night and family nights meant beer and liquor and beer and liquor meant Clarke being drunk and Clarke being drunk meant her trying to take off her clothes at least once through the night-- if for no other reason because it was “so hot in the apartment.”

Lexa’s face, however, almost made the experience worth it as she scurried around the floor, grasping at the blanket which had been drug from the couch above to cover her and her wife. “Don’t you ever call?” she asks once she’s wrapped in her blanket burrito, sending a dagger straight for your face with her ice cold glare.

“Well Commander,” you mock her stern disposition, holding up the taco twelve pack in your right hand and the cheap case of beer in your left. “I promised I’d be here at noon… I didn’t realize that you two were going to be vampires today and sleep until the sun went down.” Glancing over at the clock on the end table beside the women, you take note of the numbers, reading out loud the “1:47,” to them as they both grumble on the floor.

“What the hell guys?” Harper questions, entering behind Bellamy and wrapping an arm through his. “For fuck’s sake…. Do you guys ever do anything other than sex each other up?” Harper’s tone is a little more playful than yours and it takes everything in you to not glare down at the woman as you gag slightly in your mouth.

“Gross,” you mumble, placing the greasy box down on the table and shuffling the beer to the other hand, locking fingers with your girlfriend. “We’ll give you time to get dressed… or something,” you say, glancing down at Harper.

“We’ve gotta go get the shit for tonight out of the car anyway,” she finishes your thought, pulling your arm closer to her chest.

With a slight cringe, you turn away, unable to not smile as Clarke’s laughter chimes out behind you over Lexa’s attempts to hush her. Although it’s fucking weird to think that they probably had sex on the same couch that you have an assigned seat on, you’re really happy to hear Clarke laughing. You’re extremely happy to hear Clarke’s laughter-- especially after everything.

_“I can’t do this,” Lexa grumbles, turning away from the door that she had yet to reach the last fifteen times that she’s tried. As your arm joins hers to spin her around, she pulls from your grasp, glaring deeply at you, those brown eyes filling deeply as her pupils dilate against the darkness of the shadow of the Art Gallery. “There’s no way that she’s going to say yes,” she argues with your soft stare, shoving her hands into her jeans pockets._

_“There’s no way that she can say no,” you smile from the corner of your mouth, attempting to bite back your fear as well. Outside, you’re calm and collected with your clean shaven face and white button down tucked into your black jeans, black tie pinned to your shirt. Inside, however, you’re a jittery train wreck of a human being, nervous and excited for the next hour of your life. “She loves you… She always has.”_

_“Well that’s a dirty lie,” your best friend laughs sarcastically as she pushes a small brown lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. It falls again into her face and she huffs deeply, going cross-eyed for a moment to glare at the attacker that’s waging war on her nose. Taking a step forward, you brush the hair from her eyes before placing your hands on both of her shoulders, squeezing them tightly when your eyes meet hers._

_“Lexa, shut the fuck up,” the words flow from your mouth gently as you pull her in, wrapping your arms around her. “I’ve never heard her laugh as deeply as she does with you… and to Clarke, that means everything.” Releasing her after a few moments, you allow her to slip mostly from your grip as you feel Harper approach, telling you that Clarke has made it into the front door of the building and is now in position for Lexa to join her. She doesn’t know it yet, but you roommate’s life is about to change again-- this time, hopefully for the better. With your hands on her elbows, you give them one more tight squeeze before nodding with a smile, releasing her and turning towards the building, pulling an envelope from your pocket._

_If one thing could be said about Lexa it was that she was a planner and her proposal to Clarke was nothing different. It was completely planned to every detail, but that’s who they were._

“Do you think Tris will be surprised?” Harper asks as she pulls the last bag from the trunk of her Kia, pulling the hatchback door down before shuffling the brown paper bags from one hip to the other.

“Are you asking if I think that Lexa and Lincoln spilled the beans?” you laugh, brushing her blonde hair from her face with your free hand after she attempted to blow it from her eyes. “Nah, I think our cover is good. None of the Woods/Holcomb kids are much for talking.”

“What about Clarke?” she argues, nudging you with her hips as you make your way up the gravel driveway, your stumble a reminder that you and Lexa still need to pave this hideous thing.

In fact, there were a lot of things that needed to be done still to their house. That’s what Sundays had become for you. With a couple of beers in hand, your best friend and you spent the afternoons downloading youtube videos of home renovations and caravanned back and forth to Home Depot, bringing with you drywall materials and vinyl flooring. From the bottom up, for the past few months, the two of you have spent at least 10 hours a week rebuilding this house and even though there was still a lot of work to be done, you were quite proud with your achievements. The room that once leaked was now fully replaced after having been stripped down to the baseboards. The kitchen floor that was for some reason a hideous green carpet had been replaced with a marble tile-- heavy as fuck, but looked incredible. Every cabinet, every closet, every faucet, every nook and cranny of this house had been remodeled and all at the expense of the top layer of skin on your knuckles and a few arguments between you and Lexa-- but it was worth it. This was theirs and no one else could lay claim to it.

“Well...” you laugh, opening the door for Harper who passed through, popping up on her toes to kiss your cheek as she walks through the hallway to the kitchen at the rear of the house. “That’s always a concern…”

She laughed back after sitting down the bags, filling the kitchen with energy before your friends joined you, finally clothed and significantly less awkward.

Even after everything, this was alright…

This was more than alright…

This was perfect.

\---

**LINCOLN**

If Tris ever questioned her place in this family, the party that was raging in Lexa’s house in honor of Tris helped dissolve those doubts. As the music thumped and the voices of friends rose above the bass, you couldn’t help but smile, watching your baby sister greet all of her school friends and old team mates as they entered the door, arm wrapped tightly around Roma. More than not these days she was looking like Lexa with her long brown hair, thin yet slightly built frame and crooked smile passed down by the man who welcomed you into his home, even after everything. Lifting your drink to your lips, you cringe as the liquor washes over your tongue, wishing that Emmerson would hurry up.

It’s over a day now since you’ve experienced your last rush and without the snow, you were beginning to tremble, trying to find other ways to experience the clean feeling in your veins. Right now, liquor was providing the distraction needed… but soon it wouldn’t be enough. Soon you were going to need it.

Or worse…

Soon, someone was going to catch on.

Octavia made her way through the crowd which basically parted for the pregnant mother of your child as she passed through, greeting friends and family on her way to the seat next to you on the couch.

“You know,” her words are almost drown out by the music surrounding you and it takes everything in you to focus on her voice as you continue to scan the room for Emmerson. “These things are a lot more fun when you can drink.” Her laughter falls when you offer only an ‘mhmm’ and a small nod. “Hey,” she questions, using her small hand to turn your chin to face her. “What’s going on?” The question is delicate and for a brief moment, you’re guilty when you say ‘nothing,’ offering her a small lie about not feeling well.

Well… It was only part lie. It’s not that you weren’t feeling well… It’s just that the demon inside of you was clawing its way out…

Just like it had done all those years ago.

_“You will not become your father!” Keith’s voice resonates through the empty office as he towers over you, fists clenched as if they were ready to drive into your jaw line at any moment. He was not your father, however… but you… you were a different story…_

_“It’s not mine!” you lie, throwing your hands into the air for dramatics. Maybe if you play it up enough, your stand-in father will believe you and drop it. As your mother cries in the cushioned seat in the corner of the wood paneled office decorated in ship wheels and nautical memorabilia, you wonder how many times she’s actually cried at the hands of your decisions._

_This was the furthest from what you wanted to happen._

_“Oh really, Lincoln,” Keith demands sarcastically, a vein popping on the side of his neck. This is a rage that you never thought would come from the mild mannered firefighter who married your mother. “Then whose is it?” He reaches over to the desk beside him, shoving papers from his way as he does before he grips the small bag, tossing he powder into your lap. “Because I’d love to return it to them and get this shit out of my house.”_

_Keith cursed…. Keith never cursed…_

_“No answer?” With that, Keith’s hands touched you for the first time, gripping your shoulders as he leaned in and hovered over your 14 year old body. Without even realizing it, you begin trembling, suddenly scared of your step-father for the first time in your life._

_“Keith,” your mother interrupts, lifting her shaking frame from the chair, making her way to the two of you and placing a hand on his arm and pulling him back. It takes a second from him to release his alligator tight grip on your biceps, and when he does, the red outline of his fingers still remains, burning into your arms. “Please don’t lie to me baby boy,” your mother pleads to you, tears forming in her eyes. She doesn’t even have to squat or lean in like Keith does. Without effort, your mother is smaller than you and when you glance up, coming face to face with the tears in her eyes, it’s all you can do to produce a nod._

_Lying to your mother was the hardest part, but it’s what you had to do to survive._

“Alright,” Octavia says, releasing your cheek as you roll your head from her grasp. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?” Again, another nod distances the two of you just before you catch sight of that chiseled jawed asshole who you grew up with.

“Holcomb!” Emmerson shouts over the group as he approaches your rising body, wrapping you in his signature bro hug with three pats on the back. You can feel Octavia’s glare as the two of you part and she stands to greet your friend.

“O,” you begin, attempting to make it sound as informal and unpressured as possible. Honestly, if anything, this meeting was anything but unpressured. You wanted to do what you had to do to survive and then get Emmerson out of your sister’s house. It sort of felt wrong, bringing him in here after everything… but it’s what you had to do. The tremble in your fingers and the way that your eyes darted quickly around the room made this very clear. “This is Carl Emmerson. We grew up together.”

Emmerson reached out a hand, lifting Octavia’s fingers to his lips with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you gorgeous,” the blonde man lays it on thick as Octavia awkwardly chuckles a reply to him, reciprocating his greeting. Once Octavia’s hand has been returned to her side, your dealer turns his attention back to you, pointing with his thumb to the door behind him. “Can I chat with you for a moment outside?” he asks, signaling that he had what you needed.

Finally…

\---

 

**LEXA**

It’s not that you honestly expected this conversation to go differently… You just didn’t expect it to go this way….

“Honey, I support you… no matter what,” Clarke’s voice says to you as she slides her body up onto the counter, sitting at the corner where the two grey countertops meet. “I always have.” She crosses her dangling angles, swinging them back and forth slightly as she speaks.

“Maybe that’s the problem?” you grumble through your teeth, pulling another glass from the sink to put into the dish washer. Honestly, you didn’t expect her to argue with you about you going back to school-- it was something that she suggested….

But the problem was that you never expected Clarke to argue back about anything. After ten minutes of conversation about your plans where Clarke did nothing but agree with you using phrases like “That’ll be good,” and “that sounds nice,” you found yourself becoming increasingly angrier with her-- for reasons you couldn’t exactly pin…

Until that phrase came from her mouth.

“If that’s what you want,” she says with almost no emotion, handing you the final glass from inside of the sink. And that’s what did it. That was the final straw. Taking the glass in your hand, you slam it down onto the counter before you can even stop yourself, eyes turning to look at your wife who now sits in a confused cloud of question, hands curled into her lap gently. “What the fuck Lexa?” she asks, reaching an arm out to you before you pull back, distancing yourself again.

“Nothing,” you lie as her hand retreats back to her before you change your mind, slamming the dishwasher door shut before correcting yourself. “You know what, there is something actually…”

And that’s when the words begin. As if water flowing down the stream, you continue to speak, word vomiting uncontrollably. “You’re stagnant,” you explain, glancing Clarke over once, taking note of her ultimate confusion.

Of course she didn’t understand. She doesn’t even remember what she was like before all of this.

“When we first met,” you begin, rubbing your eyes to push back the tears that have already began forming. “You used to be so much…. So much more… and now… you’re not.” Before you can say anything else, Clarke pushes herself from the counter taking a step towards you, but you’re not giving her this one. This one’s yours. “You used to paint and draw and read and speak with such passion… and since the accident… you just… don’t.” You continue, unloading months’ worth of fear and depression onto her, explaining how her lack of interest and motivation has affected you mentally. “You used to care so much… and now you don’t.”

“So wait,” she interrupts you, throwing a single finger into the air to stop your words. “You’re pissed off that I’d rather make you my passion?”

Oh no…

She is not turning this around on you…

This is not your fault…

And you’re not the only one to have noticed this either…

But this is not your fault…

“No,” you correct her, clinching your fingers around the glass in your hand, forgetting until now that you were even holding it. “I’m mad because you don’t want to do anything…. You don’t want to be anything… Not anymore…”

“You know what… we aren’t having this argument… You have no clue what’s happening inside of my head…”

You’re unsure if it was the fact that Clarke interrupted you or if it was that she’s completely right about your lack of understanding of post-coma brain for Clarke, but something she said bubbles up inside of you, lifting your arm for you and bringing it down quickly and strongly against the countertop, shattering the glass across the grey stone.

“Then fucking talk to me about these goddamned things,” the words shout in your voice… but you don’t say it. The disconnect between your brain and mouth has been established and as you silently scream for the words to not leave your vocal chords, they do, leaving in them a wake of destruction accented with the shattered remains of your kitchenware.

Your wife looks just as surprised as you are at your outburst and when she takes a step back, distancing herself from you, the gravity of the situation comes into focus.

You lost your temper…

You lost control…

You broke something…

And it could have just as easily been Clarke…

“Oh my god,” you mumble at the realization as Clarke begins wringing her hands in front of her body.

“You know,” she says, taking a single step over the glass on the floor, taking care to not only avoid the sharp dangers that you’ve produced, but to avoid touching you as well. Your heart breaks as you watch your wife purposely navigate the kitchen so she doesn’t have to come in contact with you. “You can start the conversation sometimes too…” With that, she makes her way from the room and into the hallway, her footsteps quickly disappearing behind the slam of the studio door, leaving you alone with your destruction.

“I’m not dealing with this…” you grumble to the empty space around you sighing deeply as the darkness seeps in through the cracks in the walls, beginning to fill the room around you. There’s plenty of opportunity and for the first time in months, you can justify your desire. It wouldn’t be impossible to blame any damage that you create across your skin on the glass explosion. I mean… you could make just one swipe that would blend in with the red that was already flowing onto your fingertips, dripping onto the floor below you. No one would ever be able to tell the difference…

And what is once more after months of not?

Feeling the blood drip from your fingers, you turn your hand over once to look at the source of the crimson river: the same scar that radiated blood on the night of Clarke’s accident…

The same scar that you created last time you successfully fended off the darkness.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Swallowing deeply, you push down the vomit that was rising in your throat as you pull your phone from your back pocket, thumb swiping quickly across the device’s screen.

 **Lexa (10:24 PM):** I feel like drowning

Almost instantly, the three dots at the bottom of the screen bring a small, half smile to your face as you wait for the beep and the blue and grew text to pop up.

 **BellBlake (10:25 PM):** You’ve gotta swim… swim when it hurts.

Breathe in.

And another ding brings you back again.

 **BellBlake (10:28 PM):** The currents will pull you away from your love. Just keep your head above

Breathe out.

Leaving the glass in the kitchen, you make your way down the hallway lined with pictures of you and your family from vacations, sporting events, days around the town, and pretty much any other time that taking a picture was worth it… Which with Clarke was all of the time. Taking the second left, you turn into the first guest bedroom, pulling the door closed behind you as you slide down the wall, leaning your head back and listening to the sounds of the studio on the other side of the drywall. The silence is almost deafening as you wonder what Clarke is doing.

What’s she feeling?

Has she forgiven you?

Have you forgiven her?

Another ding and a vibrate attempt to pull you from your questions, but instead of answering it, you allow yourself to toss the device, suddenly overwhelmed by your hatred of technology.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\---

**BELLAMY**

Returning your phone to your pocket after sending Lexa the reply text, you turn you attention back to Harper who was too preoccupied with the meal that she was preparing to even share a concern for you. Not to mention, she knew about you and Lexa’s arrangement. She knew that at any given moment, you would have to drop whatever you were doing to help Lexa. She knew that the same worked for you. More than anything, Harper knew how fragile the both of you could be-- and although the idea of your girlfriend struggling broke your heart, you were thankful for her understanding.

Basically, you were thankful for Harper as a whole.

“I’m glad  that she’s got you,” she finally speaks, brushing her blonde hair from her face. Flashing that perfect, flawless smile, she turns back to her task, pushing a kabob stick through assorted vegetables. “And I know that you’ve got her too which is why everything works out with you two, but you know that you always have me too… right?” The question that rolls off of her tongue sounds almost like a plea. Making your way over to her, you wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her into your grip from behind.

As you place a small kiss on the top of her head, you offer her a small “yes,” before questioning her, your grip tightening for her sake. “Do you get upset by our friendship?” you ask her before she turns into you, wrapping her arms around your waist, thumbs caressing the skin of your back under your button down.

With a small lift onto her toes, she kisses your lips before lowering herself back down to the floor and speaking through her half-smile. “I used to be,” she offers her honesty, making you swallow deeply as you wait for the ‘but’.  “But not anymore because you need each other… you need each other on a different plane than I need you… and I understand that that plane is survival.”

As a smirk etches itself across your face, you can’t help but chuckle slightly, moving your hands to hold her shoulders. Giving Harper a small shake, you demand an answer to the joke “are you saying that you don’t need me to survive?” Looking into her brown eyes, you smile again, unable to even handle the joy reflecting from them.

This is exactly where you needed to be.

“Eh,” she shrugs sarcastically, squirming out of your grip. “I’ll move on.” With a nudge of your shoulder, you push her into the counters to her right, watching as she overdramatizes the response, throwing herself onto the cabinets like she was dying.

Pulling you phone from your pocket, you quickly slide your fingers across the screen before sliding it back into the back of your jeans, pushing away the thoughts of anything but dinner with your love.

 **Bellamy (11:16 PM):** “I told her once I wasn’t good at anything. She told me survival is a talent.”- Susanna Kaysen

\---

**CLARKE**

With your head in your hands and your back on the wall, you find yourself completely surrounded by an unpacked room, reinforcing what Lexa had said-- you’ve basically given up on everything that once gave you any passion. In fact, if nothing else, the packed up boxes and wrapped canvas told you the severity of the truth in these statements… Plus, you didn’t even feel bad about it.

But Lexa did…

And that’s why you were here now….

Listening closely, you hear Lexa’s footsteps approach from the hallway and continue without hesitation into the room next door. With a slam of the door and a thud on the wall, the sliding sound that continues could only mean one thing-- Lexa was leaning against the same wall as you-- or at least that’s what you would hope for. Laying your body down on the wooden floor, you pull your knees to your chest and before you even know better, tears are flowing from your eyes.

It’s only been 18 days into the New Year and you’ve already managed to fuck it up for her. Just like everything, your inability to find motivation in anything other than being alive has made life hell. With your back against the wall and your knees tucked under your chin, you listen carefully as a small knock breaks your silence after what feels like hours.

Quickly, Lexa cracks the door just far enough for her thin body to slip in, lying down beside you with no words.

But she doesn’t need to speak.

It’s you who needs to apologize.

As you throw your arms around her, she pulls you in, holding your head into her chest.

“I’m sorry,” you finally gather enough air to speak, whimpering into her shirt.

“I’m sorry baby,” she apologizes back before you can even offer more. “I overreacted and really shouldn’t have said any of the things….”

“No,” you stop her, surfacing your head, face just inches from hers. “You’re right...” Your eyes begin to shuffle, glancing around the room from your space on the floor… anything to avoid the constellations on her face as they twinkle out to you, her eyes writing love letters with each blink. “I’ve started having nightmares,” the truth finally exits your lips-- a truth that you didn’t even want to talk with yourself about. “Nightmares about the wreck… and honestly… I just want everything to stop.” The tremble in your voice must be enough to give it away to Lexa because with a nod, she pulls you back into her chest, breathing slowly and deeply to allow you to catch up.

“I understand that,” she says, sharing the air around you and the cold wood floor below. “But you know,” she adds, pushing Clarke away slightly by her shoulders. “We can’t just stay here and wait for our negatives to catch up to us.”

You find yourself nodding as the tears swell up again, running down the side of your face towards the floor. “Do we have you get up?” you ask, choking back the lump in your throat. Lexa shakes her head, pulling you closer and holding you as exhaustion takes over, stealing you from the night.


	3. FEBRUARY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, here it is... FEBRUARY. Sorry it's taken so long to get it out, but i'm not able to write as frequently and my life decided to blow up in my face this last week and a half or so...
> 
> I'm going to go ahead and apologize because Making December is going to have some heavy hits right in the feels... as well as some legit triggers so let me warn you about this chapter. this chapter is full of drugs and addiction. I know how hard addiction can be. If you need change, check out this website: http://www.recovery.org/topics/addiction-recovery-helplines/  
> Friends, take care of yourself. You are valuable to me!
> 
> As always, follow me on tumblr! I love talking with new people and will totally bounce ideas off of you if you're game: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com
> 
> and there's a soundtrack for this fic! Check it out. It's updated with songs mentioned in the text and with songs that help me write! 8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4
> 
> Leave me comments... I'm totally a slut for comments!
> 
> Thanks for the read! I hope you enjoy it as much as i'm enjoying writing it!

**CLARKE**

February brought with it the hope of warmer weather… But it also brought a new depression into your house… one that you had not yet been prepared for… one that you had yet to experience. As the first week of February passed, you began noticing a change in your wife. It started with small things like her sudden struggle to wake up for her morning runs or how she was perpetually running late for her classes or even the escalation of her anxiety after burning dinner one random Wednesday. Then it changed, taking on a new form. Instead of being late to things, she would just not go and by the 8th of the month, it was unavoidable. Lexa, the all-star, perfect student that put even you to shame was skipping classes and missing assignments and ignoring phone calls from friends and refusing to speak during dinner-- even to you. For the first time, the warning signs were illuminated like the bright neon lights of Las Vegas in the summer time and not even Lincoln or Tris could help. In fact, all three of the Woods/Holcomb children were struggling in their own way with avoidance and desperation and even though you knew the cause, you didn’t want to admit it.

Admitting it would mean it was out of your control, and you weren’t okay with that.

Instead, you tried to play it off on other things.

Lincoln was in transition with the new academy and was always busy.

They didn’t get to talk as much.

Tris had just left three weeks before and as far as you knew, Lexa and Tris had never spent any time apart-- especially not since the death of their parents…

And with that thought, the truth became unavoidable…

February was when the universe decided to steal everything of importance from Lexa.

February was when death began for Lexa.

February was hell for Lexa.

February was when her parents died.

Sure, you had spent a February with her… Hell, she sat beside your hospital bed for the entire month… but it was different. Half of that month, Lexa didn’t even know what day it was. In fact, if she had her own way, for half of that month, Lexa wouldn’t have even showered or eaten for fear of being away from you when something went wrong. For the entire February the year before, Lexa was in a perpetual state of panic, so it wouldn’t have mattered if she remembered the anniversary of her parents’ deaths…

But Lincoln did.

And Tris did.

And you remember that.

You remember the way that he paced the hallway.

You remember how she cried from inside of your room’s bathroom.

You remember the way that arguments were hushed between him and Octavia in your doorway while Lexa slept and you pressed your eyelids shut, hoping for the end soon-- listening like you did when your own parents would fight.

You remember how she curled up in the chair across from your bed, pulling the blanket tight around her, gasping for air.

You remember the way that he trembled, rocking back and forth while scratching at his arm as if he was trying to claw himself from his own skin.

You remember how she tried to hold it together when asking you how treatment was going, but inevitably falling apart and crying to you-- asking you how you dealt with your father so well.

You remember the way that one of the most stable people in your life crumbled, begging you not to tell his sister about his struggles, quoting remarks about her mental health and how her survival hinged on his well-being.

You remembered how she begged you not to tell either of her siblings, explaining that they had to think that she had recovered.

It all made sense…

But it all scared the shit out of you.

So when February began, you prayed for a different outcome…

But nothing changed…

Nothing happened…

And hell began for you all.

\---

**TRIS**

You knew that February 19th was going to be hard. February 19th was always hard… it always would be… Hell, the entire month was hard…

February 19th was the day that you got the call

February 19th was the day that you were told that everything was changing.

February 19th was the day that a social worker came and talked to you in a hospital.

February 19th was the day that you began losing your sister.

February 19th was the day that your life fell apart.

February 19th was never to be easy again…

So it should have come as no shock when you were greeted with two missed calls and 6 text messages from your sister. The three text messages and one missed call from her wife, however, caused your heart to skip a beat slightly. It had been years since you actually had reason to worry about lexa, but after everything… after the pain… after the coma… after the break up… after you moving away… it almost seemed enough to begin the worry again.

As your heartbeat begins to pick up, pounding in your chest like a bass drum in a rock concert, Roma wraps her arms around you, pulling your thin body tighter into her chest asn you breathe shallow, quick breaths into the pillow beneath your head. She repeats the phrase “Breathe like me,” and if only for a second, it appears to be working. “Breathe like me, baby,” she continues to say, taking deep breaths in and exhaling slowly over your ear. You’re trying… you really are… and there’s a part of you that wants to just turn around and scream at her that you’re trying… but you know that she knows this. You know that she knows that you’re keeping the worst of it at bay and because of this, and your overwhelming exhaustion in this moment, you don’t. You don’t yell, even though you want to. You don’t scream, even though the pressure in your brain begs for release. You don’t cry even though the tears seem to beat on the gates of your eyes. No… Instead you just sit, shuddering the breaths back and forth through your lungs while trying to think of the words to reply to your sister’s texts.

SEESTER (8:27AM): Fuck it all

SEESTER (8:29AM): Who even understands this shit?

SEESTER (8:33AM): Should I talk to Clarke?

SEESTER (8:34AM): Fuck that… I don’t want to talk to anyone…

SEESTER (8:34AM): except you…

SEESTER (8:36AM): Fuck it. I’m done. Going back to bed.

Pulling you in tighter, your girlfriend takes the phone from your hand, placing it on the bed beside you in your unpacked apartment room, kissing your ear and whispering, “I have you,” into your ear before laying her head down behind you, burying her face into your hair.

It should come as no shock to you that February 19th was never going to be easy…

But it was slightly surprising that February 19th didn’t have to be quite as hard…

With Roma’s arms around you, it sort of felt like you could actually take on this day.

\---

**OCTAVIA**

Watching your husband struggle was one of the hardest things that you could ever do…

Watching your husband struggle and no be able to do anything about it was the hardest thing that you could ever do.

This had happened for years now, and for years now, you’ve never had any clue what to do. He’d sit awake for hours, rocking back and forth in bed until exhaustion took over and he eventually fell asleep. He’d work late at the academy, locking himself in the office surrounded by paperwork and tax information, blasting his music while claiming to be working, but through the door you could hear the sharp inhales of tears and the accompanying sounds of crying. He’d come stumbling into the house at odd hours, unable to even make eye contact before forcing himself into the shower where you would find him an hour later, unable to even stand on his own as he shivered in the cold water while you drug his body out and into the bed.

Februarys were unbelievably hard for you…

But to make matters worse, for the last few years you’ve been unable to talk to anyone about it. After the first incident where you found Lincoln’s car parked next to a scenic overlook, his feet dangling over the side of a small cliff while tears flooded his cheeks and he begged you not to tell anyone… especially not his sisters… you’ve felt this overwhelming loyalty to his cause-- even if you didn’t agree…

And every time he cried…

Every time you wrestled a glass of brandy from his hand…

Every time you picked up his exhausted body from the bathroom floor…

Every time you looked into those bloodshot eyes…

He reminded you of your promise that first time…

He reminded you not to tell…

\---

**LEXA**

“Look, just leave it the fuck alone,” your words bite, Clarke cringing from across the kitchen while she stirred the pot of chili for tonight’s dinner that Bellamy and Harper were supposed to joining. They were already 20 minutes late, a fact that irritated you to no end, but let’s be serious… everything irritated you these days. “I’ll be fine when they get here… but will you?” You question your wife who is now withdrawing the spoon from the chili, grip tightening to the point where you can see her knuckles turning white. Honestly, if growing up with an Italian grandmother taught you one thing, it was that this was probably the worse time to upset her… That spoon could become a weapon really quickly and although Clarke was not prone to violence, neither was Agitha… but that didn’t stop her.

“And what the fuck does that mean?” she asked you, tossing the spoon into the sink- another annoyance of yours. Jesus Christ… Clarke was always putting shit in the fucking sink without rinsing it off first…

Snatching the spoon up and putting it under the running tap water, you maintained eye contact with the blonde, making sure your intentions were very clear. “It means that you’ve been riding my ass for three fucking weeks now Clarke. Are you quite done or do you want to shove your arm up Harper’s ass and make her your fucking puppet too?” you shout, slapping the handle down on the faucet and tossing the spoon back into the sink before drying off your hands on a dishtowel, throwing them into the air as your question ended. You didn’t expect an answer so it didn’t surprise you when Clarke didn’t give you one.

What did surprise you, however, was the hand that met with your cheek, quickly leaving a bright red streak across your nose where her nails met with your skin accidentally. For a second, you saw the shock in her eyes, but she choked back the expression while she struggled to choke back the tears with it, swallowing down both and keeping a stern face.

“Woah,” a voice behind you comments while another one coughs in an attempt to clear the silence.

“Should we come back later?” Bellamy asks as you turn, pulling your hand to your cheek. You can feel the heat radiating from your face as you open your mouth to attempt to speak.

“No, we’re done here,” Clarke beats you to it, nudging her way past you and through your friends, retreating down the hallway. She’s practically on fire but when she disappears down the hallway, the darkness begins to sink in through the doorway as if she opened the floodgates behind her.

“Okay?” Harper asks you, walking over near you and placing a bottle of wine on the countertop, reaching behind you to grab a beer from the fridge, popping the top and taking a swig quickly. When you nod without answering, she lets out a small chuckle, saying “Yeah, I’m not going to believe that.”

Opening your mouth to speak, words simply disappear. There’s really no way to explain what just happened… not that wouldn’t paint you to be the villain at least-- and you really weren’t feeling that business today. “She doesn’t get it,” you finally settle, knowing that you wrong in saying that.

She does get it…

That’s the problem…

But for some reason…

You won’t let her…

“Yeah,” Harper laughs, taking another drink from her beer, flipping the tab on the top before she looks up at you, her lip tucked between her teeth. “I’m not buying that shit either… I’ve known Clarke for a long time and, sweetheart, if there’s one thing that she does understand… It’s pain.” She inhales and sighs quickly, putting a hand on your shoulder. “We’re going to raincheck chili, okay?” she asks you, the question not really a question at all.

Before you can answer, she’s already disappearing down the hallway, gathering Bellamy who was, no doubt, outside of the bedroom door attempting to draw your wife out of her seclusion. After a short exchange of goodbyes, you hear the door to outside close and you’re hit with the brutal honesty of the situation at hand…

You are an asshole.

\---

**CLARKE**

“You always side with her… she’s your best friend, Bellamy,” you remind him, refusing to open your door as you throw your body down on the bed. It’s not false…. It just may not be an entirely true statement.

“I’m not siding with her,” you hear him attempt to rattle the doorknob, shaking it as he speaks. “Damn it,” a small mumble escapes his breath just loud enough for you to hear. “She was probably an asshole… that’s why you hit her…”

“Smacked,” you correct him, lifting a finger as if he can see you through the door. The distinction was important-- at least in your mind. With you face buried in the pillow, you ponder for a moment how he can even here your mumbles through the closed door.

“Fine… you smacked her… and she probably deserved it… but you need to also remember that she’s not used to having someone around… everyone’s always hurt her and…”

“That’s bullshit,” you interrupt him again, causing a sigh to stumble through his, without a doubt, open lips. Bellamy hated being interrupted and he always had this same face of irritation where his mouth was open and his jaw cocked to one side. After you begin speaking, he normally smiles sarcastically-- indicative of him losing patience with you. If you were to open the door right now, you’d probably see that smile. “She’s had Tris and Lincoln…”

“And they’re struggling with the same shit,” he plays your card, cutting off your words. And now you see why it’s so annoying.

“Hey babe,” Harper’s voice appears in the distance, growing louder as she approaches, small echoes on the wood floor giving her away. “Hey Clarke,” she shouts through the door causing you to smile. “Look, we’re going to postpone. We’ll be back for family game night, okay?”

For a moment, you want to question her. You want to ask why… But then you realize… you know why. They walked in on you smacking your wife and storming out of the kitchen like a toddler, locking yourself away while Lexa, without a doubt, simply stood there, unable to speak. You two were like clockwork-- predictable in every way. As their footsteps retreat down the hallway and the main door to the house opens with a chime of the alarm system, you wonder what Lexa’s thinking. Is she blaming you? Is she blaming herself? Is she overwhelmed?

And then the panic begins.

 _“Her happiness hinges so much on others,”_ Lincoln’s words echo through your mind when he explained to you that she could never know of his struggles. As he sat in your hospital room, glancing over his sleeping sister while she rested on the couch at the other end of the room, a tear raced down his cheek, challenging gravity on the tip of his chin as it worked its way through his growing beard. _“She’s never allowed to know how hard I struggle… with anything…”_

When the door began opening, you were mildly shocked at first until you remembered that Lexa knew how to pick the lock, having done so many times when you locked them out of the room after first moving in. She had tried to show you a few times, but it never worked for you-- just another thing she was better than you at.

Without words, the brunette crawled into the bed that you were resting on, lying next to you and staring at the ceiling above your head just like you after you rolled over to join her, still maintaining a distance between your bodies. There’s a lingering silence that makes you want to apologize. You want to roll over and kiss her soft lips. You want to wipe the tears that you can already feel running down her cheeks and whisper to her that you’re sorry and tell her that you wish that you could change things. You want to tell her that her parents would be proud of her and that they loved her very much and that all of these things are evident in the way that she lives her life…

But you can’t.

You can’t bring yourself to move. Something inside of you-- that stubborn indecision that almost lost her at the bar when you chose to walk out on day one… that inability to speak up when you wanted to challenge every terrible comment she’s ever made… that desire to be stagnant in your life kept you still, clenching the bedsheets at your side as you gritted your teeth, inhaling and exhaling slowly so she wouldn’t hear.

“Why is it that when I talk to you these days, I always feel like I fuck it all up?” she asks, the question breaking your heart when her voice cracks halfway through.

After a moment of thought, your voice echoes hers, trembles, cracks, and all as you repeat, “Why is it that when I talk to you these days, I always feel like I fuck it all up?”

She turns her head to look at you and through your peripheral you can see the glisten of her tears as they reflect on her cheeks, but you can’t bring yourself to move-- not until the words “are we going to make it?” exit her mouth in a large tremor, the air exiting her lungs in a broken pattern as she cries.

And you lose it. You’ve held that stone cold, hard demeanor for so long, but being the source of Lexa’s new tears has done it for you…

You fucked up…

\---

**OCTAVIA**

“Lincoln, I swear to fucking god… If you’re drinking again…” you begin, the crash in the kitchen echoing as you make your way into the hallway, pacing slowly so you can give him time to clean-up whatever mess he’s made. You’ve been working on your mom voice, if nothing else by accident, for the past 12 days since Lincoln began his spiral into darkness.

You’ve always wondered what Clarke meant when she described Lexa’s depression as “a darkness”. It’s not like depression was something new to you… you dabbled in pain and emotional despair, but it was never really your thing. Sadness was more of your brother’s game, but you could see where they were coming from… sometimes…

But now… now you absolutely understood. Watching Lincoln crumble before your eyes has been nothing but darkness and for the past 12 days, you’ve been drowning in the darkness-- if that’s what one does in darkness…

Rounding the corner of the kitchen, the hand that was holding your swollen belly reached out to steady yourself on the countertop as your eyes caught the sight of your husband on the ground, convulsing as he foamed at the mouth, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Jesus Christ… Lincoln!” you shout, not even aware of the fact that you’re speaking until long after words continue coming. Throwing yourself down beside him, you pull at his jacket, rolling him over to his side as he continues to violently thrash, knocking you over as you try to help. “Come on Lincoln,” you cry out, getting a better grip on his shirt this time, pulling him over onto your knees. “Don’t do this.”

Within the next minute, the seizure gives way to just Lincoln… Simply your husband laying in his own vomit, surrounded by your arms as he attempts to sit up and speak. Words stumble through his lips, but none of them make sense and you can tell his agitation is growing.

“Get off,” he finally produces coherent phrases, shoving you gently by your shoulders. Instinctively, your hands go in front of your stomach, protecting your unborn son as your husband pushes you back, his eyes making their way to your hands. Suddenly, the realization must have hit him as those almond eyes widen and his arms go around you, pulling you close to him. “Did I hurt you?” he asks multiple times, grabbing the sides of your face and then your stomach as he continues to speak. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry…”

“Lincoln, stop!” you finally gather enough air to speak, pushing him away. “We’re taking you to the hospital!”

“No!” he interrupts, his booming voice taking you by surprise. “No,” the correction comes at a lower tone as his right hand finds your trembling cheek. “I used to get them all the time,” he says, apparently knowing exactly what happened. As his left eye twitches, you notice something in his stare that you don’t normally see out of Lincoln. You see fear. “It’s a stress thing… I’m just… I’m stressed…”

Taking a deep breath, you pull him back in, holding tight around his arms. This argument isn’t over but for this exact moment, you’re just happy to be holding him.

\---

**LEXA**

The next two days came and went for you and Clarke and although you danced around the awkwardness of your increasing depression, it became more and more apparent to you that Clarke was trying…

Even if she was terrible at it, your wife was trying her hardest…

And you had not been giving her enough credit for that…

So when February 14th rolled around, you knew exactly what to do. Clarke loved this day. For whatever weird and bizarre reason, your wife loved Valentine’s Day and craved to celebrate it like a “normal” couple-- in spite of your absolute desire to not. You never understood the holiday, but your behavior the past 13 days didn’t allow you to make decisions.

You weren’t allowed to be cynical.

Today was about Clarke.

So after you spent entirely too much time at the closest Walgreen’s and spent entirely too much money on things that sang and rose petals and pretty much anything red and pink in the entire place and bought entirely too much chocolate, you finally made your way home to begin the preparations. At 6pm your festivities began, knowing that Clarke wouldn’t be home until 12:30 in the morning and by the time that her feet passed through the threshold of your doorway, you could hear the air exiting her lungs, even over the disgusting choice of music you had playing as you added the finishing touches to dinner.

“Don’t move!” You shouted through the house, ripping the washcloth that you were using to dry your hands and pick up small spills from your belt and tossing it onto the counter, making your way into the hallway. “Close your eyes,” you smile at your wife who already has tears forming in her eyes and she hasn’t even made it through the rose pedal covered hallway. “I mean it… Close them!” you basically order her as you approach and she reaches out for you. Denying her, you take both of her hands, pushing them over her face.

“You hate Valentine’s Day,” she reminds you, chuckling as her hands reach her face.

Leaning into her, you kiss her lips softly while still holding her hands tightly against her head. “Yeah, but you don’t,” you justify, stepping around behind her without removing her hands. “So walk…” As you lead her through the hallway, the fatal flaw comes into realization for you…

If you have her cover her eyes…

She can’t see the floor…

If she can’t see the floor…

She can’t see the roses…

And if she can’t see the roses…

She can’t see…

Well fuck…

As you stumble towards the living room, you turn her to the left, taking the corner a little too tightly and stubbing your toes directly onto the doorframe with a flow of profanity exiting your mouth into Clarke’s ear. She laughs gently, stopping to turn into you. Taking your hands into hers, she kisses your fingertips before pulling them around her waist. With her eyes still closed, she lifts her hands to your face, feeling around softly before holding your cheeks. “Babe, let me help,” she says with a smile, planting a small kiss on your nose. Without any more words, she opens her eyes, staring straight into yours.

And you looked back, melting away into the sea of blue yet again. It felt like home. The light from the hallway flickered and sparkled into those eyes and made you want her more. Those eyes that mirror the midday sky, reminding you that time is not up yet-- not matter how much you crave for escape.

“I worked so hard,” you mumble, suddenly overwhelmed with your failure. You don’t even know how to celebrate Valentine’s Day correctly… What is wrong with you?

“And it’s already the most perfect thing that has ever been done for me,” she replies with her crooked half smile, stroking your cheek with one thumb. Leaning her forehead into yours, she rests her head on yours, exhaling slowly. “So show me what you’ve done?” she asks of you before opening her eyes again.

Jesus Christ those eyes…

Licking your lips, you nod, suddenly excited about all of your work. “Okay,” you say, unable to explain how her eyes have convinced you to have hope again. Turning her body around, you continue to lead her into the living room from behind, making your way to the middle of the room where you’ve cleared a spot on the floor and laid out a small blanket that held two glasses of wine and two empty dinner plates.

“Lexa,” she smiles, lifting her hands to cover her mouth.

“Well, you like picnics,” you explain in probably the most awkward demeanor that you could. You never thought you’d be this nervous about anything… not since your proposal at least…

_Once Lincoln left you to join the others inside, you continued to pace, your heart beating faster than your feet against the pavement. Even within the shadow of the art museum, you were still sweating under your black button down and skinny jeans. Scratching at your neck, you pulled away the red and black striped tie that you had been loosening for the last hour. She was behind schedule, but that exactly like Clarke-- never on time._

_“You’ve got the green light,” Harper whispers to you through the crack in the door frame before she slipped back inside to distract your girlfriend-- the final step in the plan…_

_It was all coming together._

_First, Tris had asked Clarke to breakfast entirely too early… but training was early and Clarke agreed-- for Tris’ sake… or at least that’s what she thought._

_Once at Pete’s, Maya would be passing through, “picking up a to-go order” and would invite Tris and Clarke to get massages with her. Clarke probably protested at first, but by the texts from your sister, everything was working out well._

_After stopping to get ice cream with the girls, Monroe and Murphy would have taken over, explaining that they were “catching up” and should have invited Clarke to join them after Tris had to “leave for practice”-- or you know, join you in setting up the gallery room at the art museum._

_After Murphy and Monroe convinced Clarke to go to Laser Tag with them, they’d run into Harper and Bellamy who were supposed to be “on a date”-- or that was the excuse at least._

_The 6 of them would then go out to lunch at a tavern downtown which just happened to be Clarke’s favorite place and Bellamy would just happen to pick up the tab-- with your credit card of course, but Clarke didn’t have to know that._

_That’s when things would begin to get weird… as if they weren’t already._

_The bartender at the Tavern, a gentleman named Lee who you grew up with would bring Clarke a drink and an envelope with a note in it. This note would have begun explaining everything to her…_

_My dearest Clarke,_

_You may have caught on by now, but none of this is accidental. I hope you’re ready for the best day of your life because I have specifically designed this day to be all about you. So far you’ve been to breakfast, the spa, laser tag, ice cream and lunch. You’ve still got some more to go, so get stoked about what the rest of the day has planned for you and I can’t wait to hear all about it tonight when you get home. I love you._

_Lexa_

_Taking a deep breath, you try to put the rest of the day out of your mind. There’s no sense in worrying about whether or not Clarke enjoyed the movie theater with the group, dinner, the drive thru safari with Monty and Jasper, or the shopping adventure where Raven surprised her and Octavia. There’s no sense in worrying about whether or not she had figured out what was happening. All that you could do now was worry about the next, and final step… When you would enter the art museum and, surrounded by Clarke’s art work that you had installed in the gallery thanks to some connections you had been building for months, kneel down, asking the blonde to be yours forever._

_Wiping your sweating palms on your pants legs, you take one, final, deep breath, opening the door and quickly passing inside, the sound of your pulse echoing in your ear._

Smiling at you, your wife wraps her arms around your waist, laying her head on your shoulder. With a deep breath, you wonder how she can stand the vibrations in your chest. Surely your heartbeat is giving her a black eye.

“Sit,” you finally say after a few moments, savoring the silence of holding her until you hear the ringing of your phone in the kitchen-- the alarm signaling that dinner is done. Once you’ve returned with the two plates in your hand, you find your wife doing exactly as told. When you sit next to her, she clicks the lock button on her phone, sliding it across the floor towards the couch with a smile.

“No distractions?” she asks, placing a hand on your knee. You can’t help but smile back, pulling your phone from your pocket and sliding it next to hers.

“No distractions,” you repeat, turning towards the food that you’ve placed before her. “Okay, so we have dinner and wine… and you know I can never remember what you like and I promise I didn’t burn it too much but if it sucks then we can…”

“Shut up,” the blonde laughs, grabbing the sides of your face quickly but gently, placing a small kiss on your lips. “I just need you to stop talking and thinking so much and pour me a glass of wine, okay?”

With your words silenced, your thoughts disappear, the smile spreading across your lips radiating through your own body. Is it possible to feel a smile in your brain? Nodding, you bite down on your lip as you turn towards the bottle, uncorking it and pouring the two glasses. “So I want to apologize,” you begin, Clarke sighing and asking you if she was unclear when she told you to shut up. With a small chuckle, you bring the conversation back, knowing that this needs to be discussed. “I’m serious, Clarke,” the argument slips from your lips as you raise your glass to them after Clarke takes her first sip. “I’ve been an asshole and you didn’t deserve it.”

While she twirls the alcohol in her glass, her eyes look up to meet yours, the red already beginning to stain her lips. “I’m sorry I don’t know how to handle it,” she admits, the buzzing from both of your phones interrupting her. Glancing over, she turns back to you with a smile. “No distractions.”

“No distractions,” you repeat with a laugh, bringing your glass up to meet hers.

\---

**BELLAMY**

“They’re not answering,” you shout through the bathroom door to Harper as the shower and her music drowns you out.

“But you slip away like a changing maple leaf. And try to find any dry land that I can,” the voice on the phone sings louder than you, causing you to sigh deeply, opening the door slowly enough for Harper to hear you enter. She hates it when someone is in the bathroom while she’s in the shower-- especially if she doesn’t know it.

With a knock of your knuckle on the wooden door, you try again. “They’re not answering.” The warm, thick air greets you, stealing the air from your lungs as it does the words from your mouth. You were never a real fan of hot showers… they gave you anxiety… Harper on the other hand… Harper practically burned her skin off with every shower and the air in the bathroom around you was proof of this.

_For the last time, though I have loved you. You keep slippin' away, slippin' away and I am finished with…_

“They’re probably fucking… Give them time,” she laughs, pulling the curtain back just far enough for her face to pop up next to the wall. With the water droplets resting on her eyelashes, the almond eyes that stare back at you invite you in, practically closing the door to the bathroom behind your back for you. As you slide your jacket off of your shoulders, you allow it to fall to the floor, not even worrying about subtleties anymore. “You joining me?” she asks, her eyebrows rising as she glances over her cocked head-- as if she doesn’t know.

_All the chaos and the ticking clock… The college life, the bomb that drops… And blows the whole damn thing to bits…_

“That depends,” you tease back, unbuttoning your shirt and allowing it to fall into the growing pile of your clothes. Your socks come next and the cold tile meets your bare feet, contrasting with the thick heat around you.

_Freezing are my fingertips in this cold… In this cold, cold town…_

“What on, my good sir?” her voice echoes from behind the curtain that she’s retreated around, the sound of the water pressure changing. She was already one step ahead of you.

_We make such different people climbing into different beds at night with both such different feelings… Mine are overwhelming, are yours?..._

“Well,” you begin, the metallic sound of your belt buckle accompanying your cracking voice. “It seems you already know.” As you take a step closer to the shower, the temperature of the air changes just slightly enough for you to feel it. She’s changed the water from scalding pits of hell to the lukewarm awkwardness that you like.

_I might be screaming while you're dreaming without any concern. It took so long for me to find that I can't try anymore…_

“Yes, and I’m going to freeze to death if you don’t get in here soon,” she laughs from one corner of the shower as you remove the last of your clothing, sliding behind the curtain to join her. Wrapping your arms around her, you pretend to shield her from the water, building the dramatics as if the shower head is damaging your back with its flow.

_And if I said I'm sorry too many times before it's 'cause I just wanted desperately to make you love me…_

“I’ll save you,” you tell her, pulling her head to your chest.

_Darling, if the sun could shine in brighter than all your distractions, I would climb in to help…_

“Thank god,” she laughs, wrapping her arms around you as well. Taking in a deep breath, she sighs

_And light myself on fire_

As the song ends and the next one begins with a loud, aggressive mandolin, you laugh, pushing your girlfriend away by her shoulders, your hands gently stroking the tops of her arms. “You have a terrible taste in music,” you remind her of the phrase you speak at least once a week to her as her lip pouts and she lifts a hand to pull your fingers from her arms.

As she distances herself from you and reaches for the shower curtain you hear “And you can shower alone,” just before she disappears from the shower, leaving you alone with the sound of her laughter echoing with the opening and closing of the bathroom door.

\---

**CLARKE**

When your head begins swimming in the wine coursing through your veins, your hand manages to find its way to your wife’s knee, stroking the black denim that you found yourself wishing wasn’t there. Her voice is serenading you even if you can’t tell her what she’s saying-- words aren’t necessarily what’s important-- especially not now.

“I remember feeling your hand on my knee at the bar that first night,” her sudden topic change causes you to smile, bringing you back from the space inside of your brain. Licking your lips, you nod as your thumb continues to trace circles on her jeans. “That’s when I first began falling for you.”

With a smile, you watch as she lights a cigarette, the small puff of smoke dancing circles around her head. Taking the death stick from her lips, you take a drag yourself, holding the smoke in your mouth before you lean in and kiss Lexa, sharing the nicotine infused fog into her mouth.  “I knew that I was made to love you the minute you bled on my shirt,” you grin against her smile, forehead on hers.

“I didn’t know that you remembered that,” your wife almost whispers as her hand finds the back of your neck. With her eyes closed, she breathes in deeply for a second before pulling away, lifting her body from the blanket and swaying towards the sound system, poking the power button with the same hand that would find her forehead as she questions the amount of wine you’ve actually drank.

“Well, there’s three bottles here,” you reply with a small chuckle, noticing your slur more clearly now when you shake the almost empty bottle of Roscato before you. The brunette stumbles her way back to the blanket, crashing down beside you. You lean back, joining her on your side as she links her fingers between yours.

“Do you remember the day that we were laying in your bed and talking about our favorite songs?” she asks you, playing with your fingers in hers as her brown hair cascades in front of her face. With your free hand you reach up and brush the locks from in front of her eyes, tucking them behind her ears before you lean in and kiss her, replying with a soft ‘yes’ and nothing more. “This is my new favorite,” the words exit her lips almost effortlessly, trailed by a quick “it was written for us.”

Rolling onto your back, Lexa joins in, her shoulder against yours as you both stare at the spackled ceiling, listening to the words of the song as they sing to you the story of your life. As the guitar echoes through your living room, you can’t help but remember the first time that you felt whole-- the moment that Lexa joined you in an art gallery surrounded by your own work and dropped to one knee, asking you to make her complete.

_Standing in the middle of this room should have been awkward. You’ve always wanted this-- wanted to show your talent to the world, but you’ve never thought it a possibility… after all, were you even really that good? I mean, sure, you dabbled here and there and your friends always liked your work… but they were your friends. That was their job…_

_But yet, here you stood in this marble room with paint covered canvases littered with your signatures as acoustic guitars and violins echoed softly through the halls while the light of the setting sun danced through the glass ceiling in one last attempt to steal the day._

_This was perfection…_

_Predictable…_

_But perfection…_

_You had already figured it out…_

_In fact, you figured it out hours ago…_

_When your friends just happened to be in the same places as you, things became suspicious…_

_And then when Lexa refused to answer her phone, the picture became even clearer…_

_But this…_

_You had never even dreamed of this…_

_All of your family dressed in their blacks and reds, surrounding you with love and joy while strangers complimented your artwork without even knowing that you were the artist… that you were the “C Griffin” in the corner of every canvas that honestly looked more like “G Qrittom” unless you knew what you were reading._

_And then when Lincoln approached you, asking for you to follow him into another room, your knees suddenly became weak and your hands began shaking. The moment that you had been anticipating all day was finally happening and you couldn’t even stand upright to meet the love of your life. Following as ungracefully as possible like a baby giraffe, you smile at Lincoln’s poor attempt to fight back his own grin. If you hadn’t known before, his excitement alone would have given it away._

_But none of that mattered…_

A dangerous plan, just this time//A stranger's hand clutched in mine//I'll take this chance, so call me blind//I've been waiting all my life// Please don't scar this young heart// Just take my hand

_Not when your eyes met with hers._

I was made for loving you//Even though we may be hopeless hearts just passing through//Every bone screaming I don't know what we should do//All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you

_Not when she walked up to you and took your hand._

Hold me close through the night//Don't let me go, we'll be alright//Touch my soul and hold it tight//I've been waiting all my life//I won't scar your young heart//Just take my hand

_Not when she whispered that she loved you into your ear._

Cause I was made for loving you//Even though we may be hopeless hearts just passing through//Every bone screaming I don't know what we should do//All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you

_Not when she knelt down before you._

Please don't go, I've been waiting so long//Oh, you don't even know me at all//But I was made for loving you

_Not when she asked you those four words._

I was made for loving you//Even though we may be hopeless hearts just passing through//Every bone screaming I don't know what we should do//All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you

_Not until you said yes…_

All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you

_Nothing else mattered…_

All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you

_Until you said yes._

All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you

\---

LEXA

“Fallout! One more taste…” The words begin, the synthesized sound screaming into your ears from the living room floor about three feet from your numb fingertips. “One last time… I just can't help it…” Groaning loudly, you pull the blanket over your head, hoping to drown out the sound…

It doesn’t work…

“Clarke!” you grumble, the pounding in your sinuses screaming out with you. “Shut up your phone!” The blonde attached to your arm rolls off of your shoulder, burying her face into your bare side.

“God damn it,” she mumbles, her breath tickling your ribs and causing you to cringe, elbowing her in between the eye balls. “Fuck Lexa!” she shouts back, her hands holding tightly to her nose as she sits up, pushing you away from her.

“Fallout! I need it all. Hanging from the edge of heaven…” the phone continues on until it’s silenced, a single beep accompanying the sudden change in sound. Verbalizing your thanks, you roll away from your wife, taking more of the blanket with you and joying the warmth and lack of noise before it begins again. “Fallout! I need it all. Hanging from the edge of heaven…”

“Fucking shit, change your ringtone!” you demand of the blonde as she grumbles, sliding her naked body across the carpet to grab her phone, sliding you yours in the process. The blinking light on the top of the device is enough to give you a headache, but it also warns you of your own missed calls…

9 of them to be exact…

All from your brother.

“Hello?” the groggy Clarke asks into the phone as she returns to the blankets, pulling them over her head while she rested on her back. “What?” she shouts, sitting up almost instantly, pulling the blankets from your body.

“Oh my god I hate you,” your grumpiness bleeds through as you jerk what remaining blanket you have from her with absolutely no resistance.

“Octavia’s having the baby!” the words leave Clarke’s mouth as quickly as her hand leaves her side, reaching out for you but slapping you in the face instead. As her palm makes contact with your nose, a slur of profanities leave your mouth just in time to make it through the hands that you pulled to your face, protecting yourself as if your sinuses would fall out at any time.

It only takes you a moment to realize what she said and when you do, your body shoots up in a similar fashion as hers, carrying you to your feet. “We have to go!” you shout as if Clarke doesn’t know as you help her to her feet.

He may be a little early, but your nephew is coming and if there’s one thing that you know about your family-- they wait for no one.

\---

**LINCOLN**

From the waiting room, you laugh at the situation slightly, fighting off the darkness behind you.

It’s not like it used to be.

It’s not the same.

Instead of a flood that you could float through, your pain has taken on a new form. He’s now standing behind you, hovering over your shoulder. You can hear his raspy breathing as it dances down your neck, forcing the sweat to bead up just above your skin. You can feel him inching closer with each thought of conclusion. You can hear the whispers of his voice as he reminds you that your habit is necessary-- that you are worthless without it.

“Big man!” Bellamy shouts to you as he and Harper race through the door, motorcycle helmets and balloons in hand. “What are you doing out here and not in there with your seed?” Your friend’s arms around your shoulders causes your Scourge to hiss, backing away from you for time being as he retreats back, afraid of being seen.

“They kicked me out,” your laugh booms, Harper joining as she wraps her arms through your waist, kissing your cheek before she releases you, reaching a balloon donning hand towards you. Bellamy’s chuckle adds to the festivities just as your sister and Clarke race through the same door that your friends entered through.

“Sorry we’re late,” Lexa apologizes, her matted hair pulled back into possibly the messiest pony tail that you’ve ever seen, a small white tag poking from the side of her inside-out shirt. A small laugh escapes your lungs as you hug your disheveled sister, turning towards her equally chaotic seeming wife.

“We were sleeping,” Clarke tries to lie as she removes her sunglasses, revealing the most hungover face that you’ve ever seen from her. Apparently your face gives away your thoughts as Clarke blushes slightly, nudging you with her elbow. “Shut up, asshole!”

“So how is she?” Lexa’s voice interrupts just before you can point out her fashion malfunction. When your fingers tug at the tag on the side of the black v-neck, a small “Mother fucker,” exits her mouth, sending her into the bathroom as the rest of the group laughs.

It’s these moments when you wonder if you really need your unwanted guest. He’s distanced enough that you can barely hear him, but his presence is obvious-- like walking through a dark alley way and knowing that you’re not alone. Just when you begin to question the Scourge’s requirement, he swoops in, taking you by the hand and leading you to the bathroom.

_So it was four or five of everything, as you are no good. I saw it through the frame and through my face. Covering my eyes, because we are nothing, and never quite the same from a black and white summer. With photographs that showed our rails and razorblades. I think it cured my pain, again._

“This is necessary,” his whispers accompany the shuffling of your fingers into your pocket, producing the dwindling bag that you’ve been trying to make last. “You need this to survive.”

_Promise you will go down my neck. Just like those pills and your cigarette._

“This is the last time,” you whisper, a smile spreading across the Scourge face, illuminating the shadows as they dance from his body, forming arms to hold your hand and bring the hit closer to your nostrils.

_So as my fingers curl, I move my lips just so you won't have to. Damnit you clever girl, your style is keeping us from sleep._

“That’s what you always say,” he reminds you as you inhale, the chemicals entering your body. “But we’ll see next time.” Taking a deep breath, you rub at your nose, more-so due to habit than anything else. This was all more-so due to habit than anything else.

_It's one more and I'm free, oh we've been so lucky, yeah, we've been so likely to lose. So give in, let's give in._

“I can live without this,” the rationalization comes from your lips as your hand stretches out in front of you, dangling the remains of the bag over the toilet.

_It's all suicide if I hide. Because you are everywhere I look and in my skin. I taste your neck and lips just from breathing in. Let's call it off, kid._

The Scourge hisses a small reply, reaching a hand to cover yours, closing your fingers around the bag. “No you can’t.” It’s simple, but true.

_But through the window you reach for the cold. But the door is so much closer, and the sun has sold itself to the land and all over my skin. No! No! Stop it, stop him._

This is how you’ve been for years.

_So what, so what, we all were afraid. So this I swear I know, it's not the chemicals. You are off my mind, I finally got away. You said it's such a life to remember, so come on, and we'll sleep away December._

You’ve just been avoiding it.

_It was you, bringing your white company. Oh, bringing the night, so it seemed._

You’ve just been avoiding him.

_And we will never sleep again._

“You alright in here buddy?” Bellamy’s voice chases the Scourge away quickly with the sound of the bathroom door opening to the chaos of your family outside.

“Yeah,” you stumble, shoving the bag back inside of your pocket. In the distance, the Scourge laughs, reminding you of the darkness that lingers far too close. “I’ll be out in a moment.” Wiping the sweat from your brow, you take a deep breath, tugging at the collar of your shirt.

This was only temporary.

_So as you walk through the door, and yell, "I'm never coming back here." It's over, we are still nothing._

\---

**HARPER**

One of your favorite parts of your day was waking up. As terrible as that sounds, it had its reasons. In fact it had one reason in particular and that was the curly haired man breathing down your neck. With his arms around your waist, Bellamy’s breath echoed slowly in cadence with his heartbeat, pounding gently on your bare back. The music from the bedroom’s sound system continued to play gently, reminding you of how quickly you fell asleep once you retuned home.

_Digging a hole and the walls are caving in behind me. Air's getting thin But I'm trying, I'm breathing in. Come find me_

With the gentle violin echoing the beginning of Joshua Radin’s song, you turn into Bellamy as he shifts, taking his arms back to fold under her soft face. These were some of the few moments where he was completely relaxed. In fact, these were probably the only moments where he was completely relaxed-- in those minutes just before he wakes, putting on the strong face to take on the day.

_It hasn't felt like this before. It hasn't felt like home before you._

Sliding your body up the black sheets, you plant a small kiss on his lips after brushing a lock of your blonde hair behind your ears. He shuffles, a smile spreading across the map that you just left.

_And I know it's easy to say But it's harder to feel this way. And I miss you more than I should but I thought I could, can't get my mind off of you._

“Go back to sleep,” he mumbles, the groggy, rasp in his deep voice causing your heart to flutter. With his eyes still closed, he lifts a hand, running it down your face, his fingers brushing down your eyelids in an attempt to close them. “It’s not time to wake up.”

_I know you're scared that soon I'll be over it. That's part of it all. Part of the beauty of falling in love with you is the fear you won't fall._

With a small smile spreading across your face to match his, you can’t even think of a reply. Instead, you slide into him, allowing his arms to cascade over your body as you bury your face into his neck, breathing in his soft scent.

_It hasn't felt like this before. It hasn't felt like home before you._

“I love you,” is the only thing to pass through your lips, a small set of kisses lacing their way up his neck to his jawline, making their claim just below his ear. Those three words couldn’t even begin to explain the thoughts flooding through your brain. Those three words couldn’t even being to cover the magnitude of emotion that you held.

_And I know it's easy to say but it's harder to feel this way. And I miss you more than I should, but I thought I could, can't get my mind off of you._

“Cop out,” a small chuckle exits his body as his shoulders rise and fall, his chest joining in the dance causing your head to bounce against him. “That’s all you got?” All you can do is nod.

_And I hate the phone but I wish you'd call. I thought being alone was better than, was better than…_

With a grin and a kiss planted on your forehead, he opens his eyes for the first time, the deep brown engulfing you with the kindness that you fell in love with the moment that you met him. “I’ll take it,” he mumbles, his lips lingering closer to yours for a moment before his fingers find your chin, lifting your lips to his.

_And I know it's easy to say but it's harder to feel this way. And I miss you more than I should, but I thought I could, can't get my mind off of you._


	4. MARCH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank god it's finally done.
> 
> Here's chapter 4... MARCH...
> 
> sorry for the delay... I had a super hard time getting this out and the last few weeks have been brutal for me and my girlfriend... so here it is... 
> 
> Clarke and Lexa are going to become less of a focus as things begin unfolding in the next chapters, but get excited because this is happening!!
> 
> don't forget...
> 
> listen to the sountrack that's updated with each song in the text and that helps inspire the text here: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4
> 
> follow me on tumblr and let's be friends: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com
> 
> And as always, take care of yourselves friends.

**MARCH**

**LINCOLN**

As the month from hell passed and spring began to surface, you can’t help but wonder how long this act can continue. No longer can you introduce your scourge as a simple anxious reaction to the anniversary of your parents’ deaths. No longer can you play off his presence as your inability to cope. No longer can you blame your zoning out and your leaving the conversations on the fact that you’re just not dealing well with not talking with your sisters. No longer can you say that you just miss your younger sister when you’re checking your phone over and over again, waiting for Emmerson to text you back.

It’s becoming harder to hide, and your sister is beginning to catch on to small clues… the way that you scratch you nose more than normal-- allergies. The way that you blink more than normal-- dry eyes. The way that you don’t feel comfortable sitting for longer periods of time-- anxiety. To Octavia, these excuses may work… for now… but to Lexa, they’re falling short… and this shouldn’t surprise you because she spent years of her life learning how to lie to you…

Maybe it’s now your turn…

\---

**LEXA**

“Fallout! One more taste. One last time…”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you grumble into the darkness of your bedroom, pushing your wife’s hair from your face while you attempt to not choke it down. “If you don’t change your goddamned ringtone….”

“Shut up,” Clarke bites back, punching you harder than she probably meant to in the side as she rolls away from your grip, your arms breaking the chain link that they had around her waist. “I like this song.”

“Fallout! I need it all. Hanging from the edge of heaven…”

Rolling over away from her to your other side, you pull the pillow over your head with your numb arm, biting your lower lip at the tingling sensation that’s running up your shoulder. “I did too until you ruined it for me,” you remind her, tugging the blankets with you.

She always did this. Any time that the blonde moved in the bed, she’d take the entirety of the bed with her… fitted sheet, sheets, comforter, pillows… everything… If you didn’t have a firm grasp on it, you were probably going to lose it, one way or another. She was consistent-- even today as she pulled the sheets from between your fingers when she reached her phone, leaving you to the mercy of the ceiling fan on your shivering body.

“Hello?” your wife’s groggy morning voice interrupts the chorus of probably the worst song in existence on its second go round. As you turn back to her, you lay your head on her chest, listening through her shirt to the beat of her heart as it coordinates with her breathing. Slowing yours to match, you exhale slowly as the fingers of your left hand link into the waistband of her sweatpants. “Yeah,” she mumbles, the other voice seeming to speak over her in its inaudible lecturing. By the feel in Clarke’s chest, the uninterested tone in her voice, and the way that she sighed as she ran her hand across her face before she groaned, “Alright, I’ll be there in an hour,” you guessed work. “I’ve got to go,” she grumbled to you after clicking the end call button and tossing the phone to the foot of the bed. “They have a patient who has coded twice this morning.” Her explanation falls on your deaf ears as you kiss her shoulder repeatedly, trailing up her arm to her neck. Just as a sigh escapes her lips, she shrugs her shoulders, cutting your direct path to her skin. “Lexa, I’ve got to go.”

“uh huh…” you mock, cupping one side of her face in your hand. “That’s why you told them an hour when it takes you 15 minutes to get to the hospital from here…”

The small giggle that races from your wife’s mouth to your ears sends a small jolt of excitement through your body, beginning at your heart. It feels like nervousness-- like the anxious excitement of a first date-- like the giddy happiness that forms when you get that first text-- like the first time she placed her hand on your thigh at the bar, her thumb finding its way to the patch of skin on your knee through your ripped jeans. It’s the excitement that you get every time she calls you and every time she says your name and every time she grabs your hand to drag you to the bedroom.

When you look down at her from above, your right elbow supporting your upper body as you lean in to kiss her, a small smile spreads across her lips, her eyes lighting with the passing of a car by your bedroom window, the headlight glow dancing across her face. “Jesus Christ,” you mumble, leaning in and kissing her forehead. “I love you.”

Just as you finish your phrase, Clarke’s left foot links itself under your right leg, her hands holding tight at your shoulder. Before you can process what’s happening, the blonde has used your weight against you a flipped your body under hers, her hips pushing into you as her hands hold tight at both of your wrists. “I love you,” she whispers into your ear, leaning in to bite the tip of it as you roll into her, a small moan making its way through your now opening mouth.

“What the fuck?” is all you’re able to get out as she kisses your neck, her hot breath leaving a path down to your shoulders. “Where did you learn that?”

“Lincoln’s,” she says between kisses and small bites with a chuckle. “I’ve been taking the women’s self-defense class.”

And that explains the muscle tone developing in her shoulders…

And the way that her back tattoo manages to look even hotter through her tank tops.

“Mhmm,” a small moan exits your lips before she pushes from your body, hopping off of the side of her bed and making her way towards the bathroom. “Wait… where are you going?” Lifting yourself onto your elbows, you can only wonder how desperate your face looks as you try to slow your breathing, hoping she can’t hear your pulse as it waltzes almost too quickly for your body to handle.

Clarke grins from the corner of her lips, the smirk growing as she says simply one word, “Work.” Closing the bathroom door behind her, you hear the small laugh that makes you smile, even through your frustration.

“Goddamnit Clarke Griffin,” you say, falling back onto the bed with your hand across your forehead, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. When the bathroom door opens again and Clarke emerges with her scrubs on, you can’t help but sigh, the frustration intensifying. “I was the ocean and she was the moon; pulling me in and pushing me away,” you quote a line from the poetry book that’s planted on your bedside table by Annie Munro.

Clarke smiles, leaning in to kiss your lips and then your forehead, her hand holding tight to the right side of your neck. “You caught me,” she laughs, her lips still on your head. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you joke back, a tinge of sadness in your voice knowing that the statement may be more true than you’d want it to be.

Although you’re excited for Clarke and the new opportunities she’s been given since Abby has taken over most of the projects at St. Anthony’s, and you’re excited that Clarke has been slowly but surely returning to her normal, stubborn, independent personality that she held before the accident, it was beginning to hit you-- after spending just over a year virtually attached to Clarke, helping her learn to walk and helping her remember who she was… after all of it, she didn’t need you…

_She doesn’t need you anymore…_

“I love you,” you say softly, still lying on the bed with the same thought flowing through your head…

_She doesn’t need you anymore…_

\---

**CLARKE**

After the terribly exciting month that you had in February, March came with little energy. You and your family found yourself entirely too drained to even be concerned with the festivities of spring. In fact, you hadn’t really been to a family game night in the past 3 weeks and didn’t even notice when the weather started changing… that was until your allergies exploded within your sinuses. Ever since your surgeries and ever since the infection that almost stole your life while you were hospitalized, you felt every little change in the weather. When it was raining, you could feel it. When the cold of winter gave way to the warmth of spring that should have brought hope and healing, you felt it. When allergy season bloomed with the flowers that blossomed with life and energy, you felt it. If it changed anything, you felt it. So for you, March, which should have brought a new life, just brought exhaustion…

Exhaustion and pain.

And this exhaustion and this pain made March your month to snap and lash out on those you loved… especially Lexa.

“Hey babe,” she says as you enter the living room, not breaking her focus from her textbooks with the faint sound of music exiting the speakers around the room. When your bag hits the floor next to the door frame, she stirs slightly, her brown hair falling in front of her face before her thin fingers scoop the rogue strands back behind her ears as her pen finds the space between her teeth with the other hand. “How was work?” Her eyes are still focused on the words on the pages in her lap and as your hand begins rubbing your forehead, you can’t help but give into the sinking frustration building inside of you.

_If weakness is a wound that no one wants to speak of_

“Can you not?” is all you can muster, unaware of what exactly you’re even asking of her.

Can she not what?

Read?

Talk?

Not focus on you?

_Then "cool" is just how far we have to fall_

Apparently the tone in your sarcastic comment was enough to draw your wife’s attention because when she lifted her head, the furrow in her brows gave it away-- she had caught on at last. “Are you feeling alright?” The book in her lap closes and lands beside her on the floor as she pushes herself to her feet, her arms wrapping around your shoulders. They’re weighted by the stress of midterms and working entirely too much-- the same weight that you’ve felt in the mornings when she leaves for classes after only a few hours of sleep and the middle of the night when she returns after working doubles, only to crash into the sheets of your bed and fall asleep midsentence, trying her damnedest but failing miserably to hear out whatever story you had to tell from the day. She was trying-- god was Lexa trying-- and really, that was all that you could ask of her…

But you wanted more…

Just like she wanted more from you…

You wanted more…

_I am not immune, I only want to be loved_

“Babe?” her voice draws you back in, lifting your eyes from the floor where they found themselves as you thought. “Are you feeling okay?”

No…

The pounding in your head is enough to bring you to the fringes of puking…

The burning in your sinuses is enough to make you want to claw your eye lids off…

And the aching in the back of your neck makes it feel like your head weighs ten thousand pounds…

You’ve done nothing but work doubles for the past 8 days and you don’t have a day off for another week…

Your mother has just increased your workload by another 4 cases due to an influx of seasonal illnesses…

And you can’t vent to Lexa about any of this because she has her own baggage…

She has school… and work… and she’s dealing with her sister being so far away…

No… you’re not feeling okay…

_But I feel safe behind the firewall_

“Yeah,” you shrug, unable to even explain why you were lying. There was so much irritation in you right now… So much bitterness on your tongue…

So much anger towards your body…

Towards your schedule…

Towards your job…

But for some reason…

It was all pointed at Lexa right now.

_Can I lose my need to impress? If you want the truth I need to confess…_

“I’m fine,” the lies continue as your hands push her away, turning against her to grab your bag and make your way into the kitchen, tossing the paper filled satchel onto the table and grabbing a glass from the cabinet with the same hand.

_I'm not alright, I'm broken inside…_

“Really?” your wife follows you, the raising of her eyebrow obvious in her tone. “Because you don’t sound fine.”

_Broken inside…_

Clenching your jaw, you take a deep breath, trying to remember that she’s not the source…..

She may be your trigger at the moment…

But she’s not the source…

_And all I go through, it leads me to you… It leads me to you…_

“Look, if you just want me to leave you alone,” she begins as you start filling up your glass with water from the fridge, “then just let me know… I can go study somewhere else…”

_Burn away the pride… Bring me to my weakness…_

There’s a frustration that’s beginning to grow in her voice that you can tell surprises her even.

_'Til everything I hide behind is gone… And when I'm open wide with nothing left to cling to…_

What the fuck is happening?

_Only you are there to lead me on_

Before you can even stop yourself, the words are leaving your mouth as you hand slams the glass onto the counter top, Déjà vu beginning to set in to the last, real argument that the two of you had. “Please fucking go somewhere because I can’t handle you right now.”

_'Cause honestly, I'm not that strong_

Why are you so fucking angry?

_I'm not alright, I'm broken inside…_

You can tell that her face is asking the same thing as she simply stares, her hands finding her pockets… her safety in the storms of anxiety.

_Broken inside…_

Great… now you’ve made her anxious…

_I'm broken inside, broken inside_

“Alright,” she breathes for a few moments before turning away from you, her shoulders shrugged up under her brown locks to protect herself from you. While the music continues to play in the living room, you collapse onto your folded arms, listening to the shuffling of papers, the jingling of keys, and the slamming of the front door from the safety of the corner-side counter top.

_And all I go through leads me to you_

“Fuck,” you exhale slowly, feeling the pressure shift as whatever is inside of your head settles downward with the leaning of your head. “There’s going to be fluid,” you remind yourself just as the panic begins to settle in…

_Leads me to you_

What if something’s wrong?

What if the infection’s back?

What if it’s worse?

_I'm not alright_

“Shut the fuck up,” you manage to finally grumble to yourself, throwing your arms out to knock the still full glass into the sink, water splashing up the sides of the metal basin onto the marble counter around you. When the dampness begins sinking into the chest of your tank top, you lift your head from the cold counter, rubbing your eyes as the fluids in your skull shift again.

_I'm not alright_

Take your meds, you remind yourself internally, reaching for the orange bottle on the window sill labeled _Azithromycin._ And now shut the fuck up, your brain takes over as the pill slides down your throat with ease. If the last 2 years have taught you anything, it’s how to take a pill…

_I’m not alright_

And that you’re not alright….

_That's why I need you…_

_\---_

**LINCOLN**

The cold tile on the back of your legs is remnant of those days so many years ago when you held the life inside of your sister, gripping tight to her bleeding wrists as you wrestled a blade from her hands. Funny how you were there when she didn’t want you to be, but now… now that you needed someone… the only one alone in this bathroom with you was your own addiction.

With the phone vibrating in your hand, a tremble inches its way up your spine, settling in your neck.

 **Emmerson (6:34PM):** Hye I got new shit

_I've been spinning now for time. Couple women by my side. I got sinning on my mind. Sipping on red wine_

**Emmerson (6:37PM):** do you want to meet?

_I've been sitting here for ages. Ripping out the pages. How'd I get so faded?_

**Emmerson (6:49PM):** You can come by tonight if you want..

_How'd I get so faded?_

**Emmerson (6:55PM):** Look man, I know you’re short

_Oh, no, no, don't leave me alone lonely now. If you loved me how'd you never learn?_

**Emmerson (7:09PM):** If it’s money, let’s chat

_Oh, coloured crimson in my eyes. One or two could free my mind_

**Emmerson (7:21PM):** Lincoln

_This is how it ends. I feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream_

**Emmerson (7:36PM):** dude you have to get in on this

_Fading out again. I feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream_

**Emmerson (7:40PM):** Come on man… you know i’ve got you…

_So tell me when it kicks in…_

**Emmerson (7:42PM):** If you don’t answer soon, i’m selling your share

_I've been looking for a lover. Thought I'd find her in a bottle. God, make me another one. I'll be feeling this tomorrow_

**Emmerson (7:44PM):** Ok for real, I’ve got a bid so I need do know..

_Lord, forgive me for the things I've done. I was never meant to hurt no one. I saw scars upon a broken-hearted lover_

**Emmerson (7:52PM):** I’m about to say oay….

_Oh, no, no, don't leave me alone lonely now. If you loved me how'd you never learn?_

**Emmerson (7:52PM):** Okay*

_Oh, coloured crimson in my eyes. One or two could free my mind_

**Emmerson (7:59PM):** It tells me when you read this shit.

_This is how it ends. I feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream_

As if your bluff being called was enough, your fingers glide across the keyboard of your phone without your permission. Blinking quickly, you watch as they type out the phrase you don’t want to say, clicking send as the shadow descends around you.

_Fading out again. I feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream_

**Lincoln (8:01PM):** I can come by tonight.

_So tell me when it kicks in…_

A small sigh exits your lips as a laugh echoes through the room around you, bouncing from tile to tile, mapping all of the places that you’ve sat, listening to the same voice ravage your brain. Reaching inside of the pocket of the jacket that’s wrapped more loosely around your shoulders, you pull the last of your supply, unrolling the small bag with a tremble.

_All the voices in my mind. Calling out across the line…_

**Emmerson (8:04PM):** Thought I lost you there buddy. Sounds good.

_So tell me when it kicks in…_

The shadow engulfs you, pulling your arm closer to your face as you inhale deeply, the powder filling your sinuses and flooding your veins with the adrenaline that you craved. The tightness in your muscles began to loosen just as the smile cracked across your numbing face.

_All the voices in my mind. Calling out across the line…_

“Good job,” the Scourge says as he pats you on the knee, reminding you that you’re a slave. “Tonight we’ll get more.” As he exits the room just as quickly as he came, the realization hits you completely.

_So tell me when it kicks in…_

You…

Are…

A…

Slave…

_All the voices in my mind. Calling out across the line…_

Opening a new message, you scroll over to your sister’s name, clicking on it and smiling as a picture from her wedding of the two of you grinning wildly into the camera fills the screen. Tapping the small envelope next to her left cheek, you begin typing before you even realize what you’re saying…

_So tell me when it kicks in…_

_What does it feel like to lose control?_ You ask her, the red DRAFT next to the message screaming into your senses as you feel the Scourge’s hand on yours.

_All the voices in my mind. Calling out across the line…_

“No,” he says, clicking delete with your thumb. “You are mine.”

_So tell me when it kicks in…_

The tension rises as the tears fill your eyes… the same eyes staring the devil in his face right now. With a scream, you pitch your arm back, throwing your phone full force into the wall in front of you, the glass screen and body shattering across the tile before each shard falls to the floor, the music of your despair littering the room.

_All the voices in my mind. Calling out across the line…_

“You are mine…”

_So tell me when it kicks in…_

\---

**LEXA**

When your phone rings and you see your sister’s dork-ass face pop up on your screen, you don’t even pretend to try to hide your excitement. The picture brings back memories of the last family game night that you spent with your little sister.

_When Tris entered the room, you could tell there was a weight on her shoulder. There had been for weeks now, but something seemed different this time-- like she had finally heard back from the league-- like she was leaving. As she approached you with a nod, you found your arms wrapping around her tense shoulders, tears forming in your eyes in spite of your excitement. This was exactly what you guys had always wanted. This was why you spent all that money that you didn’t have on private soccer coaches. This was why she practiced day in and day out. This was why your bathroom was home to many ice baths and your kitchen was often filled with muscle milk and planned meals that you wouldn’t dare touch. This was what she had worked for years to accomplish-- but still, this meant she would be leaving._

_When you finally release her, a small chuckle escapes your lips as your tear ridden face cracks into a smile. “I’m proud of you,” you whisper to Tris who had begun looking more like her mother than you ever thought she would. Pushing a lock of her brown, curly hair from her face, you cup the back of her neck, bringing her back in for another hug._

_“Don’t make this all weird,” she asks you, wrapping her arms around your waist as the party continues around you. “I really don’t want this to be a big deal. I just want…”_

_And as if on cue, Octavia who has drunkenly found her way onto the table, supporting her hand on Lincoln’s shoulder, shouts into the group, bringing everyone’s attention her way. The brunette sways as she lifts her red cup, smiling as the words begin to slur out of her. “Hey everyone,” the interruption rings into the crowd of your family, all slowly coming to a silent stare. “Guess who just made a pro soccer league?”_

_The group’s attention turns toward your sister who had pulled from your grasp when Octavia began speaking, her fingers still interlocked in yours. Her girlfriend approaches to her right, handing both of you a cup filled with the cheap beer of the week-- no doubt Bellamy’s choosing based off of the smell-- with a smile, wrapping her arm into Tris’s right._

_“That’s right, assholes,” Octavia’s laugh warms you slightly as Tris’ grip tightens on your fingers, the redness in her face bleeding across her cheekbones as her eyes drop to the floor. “Baby Leroux over there is leaving us to go be a soccer star in Kansas.” The cheers that erupted from your small group could have put a stadium to shame as Octavia jumps from the table, leaving the crowd to their own devices. With hands reaching over you and patting Tris on her back, you smile, stepping back away from the group. Just as your back foot sets down onto the carpet below, you feel a body against yours, pushing into you from behind as its small arms find themselves around you._

_“Well hello there,” Clarke’s voice smiles into your ear just before you turn into her. “How are you doing?” She asks, kissing you softly, her voice asking more than her words. You’ve talked about this. You’ve gone to therapy about this. You’ve vented and cried and screamed about this-- but still you feel unprepared-- and Clarke can tell. As you shrug, her grip around your torso tightens, the palms of her hands finding their way to the small of your back. “You’ve got this. She’s still going to be your sister.”_

_Nodding, you turn to face her, watching as Octavia retells the story of the first game that you all went to where Tris was being scouted. The small brunette’s over exaggerations and huge gestures bring a smile to Tris’ face as she and Roma laugh, correcting the smaller woman, causing more laughter among the group._

_“I know,” you exhale, linking your fingers into Clarke’s and taking a drink from your cup with a cringe as you watch Roma join in Octavia’s story time, throwing her arms into the air to mimic Tris’ victory dance that occurs with each goal scored. “It’s just weird… I raised her…”_

_Clarke gives your hand a small squeeze before she lifts your fingers to her lips, planting a small kiss on each one before speaking again. “I know that… and I know that you did a great job… and so does she. She’ll be fine.” As you glance up at your sister from the floor where you could have been counting the fibers in the brown carpet with how intently you were staring, you watch as she laughs with the group, smiling over at you once before continuing her conversation with Murphy._

_“It’s not her that I’m worried about,” you whisper, choking slightly on the sadness that was building in your chest. You turn your head slightly just in time to watch as Lincoln slips out of the room and towards the bathroom, kissing Octavia quickly before pulling his phone from his pocket. “What about the rest of us?”_

_What about me?_

_“Hey,” Clarke interrupts your darkness before it can settle in, pulling your hand and grabbing your belt loop, pulling you into her. “Stop this, alright?” When your eyes lift and meet with hers, you’re instantly filled with warmth-- as if those blue pools were a hot spring, surrounding you as you float into them, warming the cold darkness that was surrounding you. “We’re going to visit… It’s not the end of the world.”_

_It sure feels like it._

_“Okay homos,” Tris laughs, popping up between the two of you from the side, phone in hand. “Stop making babies and take a picture with me, okay?” The laugh of pure joy that exploded from Clarke made it impossible for you to even remember sadness in the moment that her hands left your body, wrapping tightly around your younger, yet taller sister._

_“That’s not what your girlfriend asked last night,” the blonde quips as she pulls Tris in tighter, you falling in beside them with your head on your sister’s shoulder._

_“Good one Griffin, but your mom already told it to me last night.”_

_As the one-liners continue between the two, Tris stretches her arm outward, snapping a picture at the exact moment that the smile broke across your lips, defeating the sadness inside of you. Leaning into you and pulling you tightly into her, your sister smiles against your cheek, whispering a quick “I love you Big Sis,” to you before releasing you and returning to the group, typing away on her phone as she reaches her girlfriend, sliding her phone into her pocket and punching Bellamy in the shoulder for some comment that he made._

_You phone vibrates from your back pocket and when you pull it out, the image of you and the two other women pops up on your screen, the words “This is home,” underneath it causing you to smile. “yeah,” you say with a deep swallow and sigh, turning to Clarke, finding her hips with your hands. “We’re going to be okay, right?” She simply nods, kissing your forehead._

Sliding the little green sphere to the right, you lift the phone to your ears, listening to the crackle of the wind on the other line, choking back your excitement as you greet your sister with a “What’s up asshole?”

“Jeez,” her voice beings, sounding exactly as it did the week before. You don’t know why you always expected something different, but the fact that she seemed unshifting and constant comforted you… made you feel like things weren’t constantly changing around you. “See if I call back next week…”

You both laugh into your phones, the sound of her giggles filling your ears as you walk past shops and in the business district of downtown Macomb, shoving your left hand in your jacket pocket and shrugging your shoulders against the wind of your own town. “How are things?” you ask her finally, nodding at an older man as you pass by him unloading some groceries into his car.

“Good, I guess. I’ve been having a lot of headaches lately.” Her voice sounds mildly strained for a moment and you can imagine her olive skin scrunching up around her eyes as she rubs her forehead, the words mimicking her current state. As you curl your own lip and sigh at the thought of your sister in pain, you rub your own forehead. Before you know any better, your mind is flooding with the thoughts of Clarke in the hospital-- her headaches and seizure due to the infection. Before you can stop it, anxiety begins bubbling up at the thought of your sister going through the same thing. “Hey, stop that,” she says to you, as if she was right next to you, watching you battle with your demons. “I know what you’re doing and you need to stop.”

She’s right.

“Have you been to the doctor?” you ask, hoping for the whole ‘yes and I’m on a medication and it’s been getting better’ kind of reaction… but that would be too easy…

That wouldn’t be Tris.

“No,” she says, pulling a sigh from your lips. “They’ll take me out of the game if I go right now-- no matter the reason…” She obviously senses your frustration, quickly connecting phrases as she spouts some “but I’m sure it’s nothing,” and “I’m probably just dehydrated after practice”.

Sighing once more, you try to draw yourself from the dark places that you’ve started treading, forcing a grin as if Tris can see it. “Victory stands on the back of sacrifice, I guess,” you tell her, attempting to sound like you support her decisions. Even if you don’t agree, you’ve never once told her that she was wrong in anything she’s ever done-- and now was not the time to start.

The laugh that exits your phone speaker and enters your head is contagious, filling you with a smile while you listen to your sister on the other line. “So that’s how you got the name Commander then?” with a small chuckle back, you sigh at the same time as your baby sister, silence taking over for a moment before she asks you the question that you knew was coming, but didn’t know how to answer. “So how is everyone?”

Truth be told, you couldn’t answer that. The fact was that because of everything going on, your family hasn’t seen a game night in weeks now. It’s been just as long since you’ve heard from Murphy or seen Jasper and Maya. Had you and Clarke not been over to visit baby Myles, you probably wouldn’t have talked to Bellamy or Octavia in person. With work picking up for everyone, midterms rearing their awful head for you, and the drive to everyone’s houses being a pain in the ass, your family had begun to grow apart-- even if you all texted still. It wasn’t the same.

“To be honest,” you begin, reaching you hand into your pocket and fumbling with your keys as you make it to your car. “I can’t honestly tell you.” You hear the small sigh from the other line, Tris’ emotions similar to yours. “I mean, we don’t talk as much anymore…”

You can basically feel her nodding when her voice begins again. “So, is this adult life?” she asks, breaking your heart. “I mean, is this something we should get used to, or will things go back to normal for us?” Your heartbreak must be evident in your silence since she apologizes quickly as you close the door to your jeep, starting the engine and turning on the heat.

Warming your hands in front of the vents while gripping your phone between your chin and shoulder, you sigh, wanting to apologize to her for her apology, but not finding any words. “I don’t know… Things are just… different… If this is what being an adult is, it sucks.”

As she snorts a small laugh, Tris replies with “Yeah, I don’t like it…” While you shift your car into drive and pull into the street, beginning your trip home, Tris’ whole tone changes with the conversation and with your shifting of lanes. “So are you guys coming out to our first game?” she asks you, the anticipating in her voice causing a smile to crack your lips.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you say, taking a mental note to remind everyone of their familial obligation. It’s not that you didn’t want to go… it’s just that with the way everyone’s schedule was looking these days, coordinating it was going to be a pain in the ass… but none of that mattered. It was Tris’ first professional game and you were going to be there--- all of you-- no matter what.

“Good,” the smile on her lips gives itself away in her tone. “Because I think I’m going to propose to Roma that night.” The smile on your lips must have given itself away because your sister quickly adds “But you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod, still smiling. Even if things were changing, one thing remained the same-- no matter how hard it was going to be to get everyone coordinated, your family would be there.

They always were.

\---

**CLARKE**

As Lexa enters the room, you’re suddenly overcome by guilt for how much of a dick you’ve been for the past week. After your argument, she’s been dancing around the fact that you essentially told her to leave, skirting in and out of rooms, not lingering too long after getting ready for work, and avoiding confrontation-- as if there was much to begin with. And it’s not like she’s actively ignoring you… she’s just doing exactly what you asked of her…

She’s leaving you alone…

“Hey babe?” you ask as she passes through the hallway, delicate fingers unbuttoning her jacket when she turns into the doorway, turning on her heel to greet you.

“Mhmm,” she asks, her brows rising as she slides the coat off, laying it gently on the chair to her left as she passes, making her way towards you. The brunette leans onto the arm of the couch as you slide over, welcoming her to the seat next to you. As you close the magazine in your hands quickly, panic fills you, hoping that she didn’t see.

You see, Lexa was anti-babies… Well, that wasn’t completely accurate… Lexa didn’t want children-- not now at least. And ever since the birth of your nephew, that was all that you could think about. You found yourself scanning the aisles of the store, rummaging through the baby clothes, making a mental note of all of the things that you would dress your child in…. if the two of you ever had one.

And that’s how you ended up with the Babies R Us shopping catalogue that you were struggling to hide from Lexa’s view just as her eyes made their way to your hands. “What’s this?” she laughs, wrestling you for dominance of the pages, your grip loosening at her smile.

Something about the way that she smiled at you made it way too easy to give it up. “Look,” you begin as she opens the pages, flipping quickly. “I’m sorry…”

“What for?” the words come way too easy, her eyes not leaving the pages, scanning the little suit combos on little boys in dress shoes and little hats like conductors or cab drivers. “Ridiculous… can you believe this? What if a little girl wanted to wear this?”

You smile as Lexa continues her rant, complaining about the gender norms imposed on children who haven’t even developed a gender identity yet. When the words “our kids” slip from her mouth, your smile widens-- and she doesn’t even notice. “Babe,” you interrupt her, exhaling slowly as you take the book from her hands. “We’ve got time for this… let me apologize for being an asshole to you, okay?”

Your wife smiles at you, melting your heart as you close the pages of the catalogue, laying it beside you on the couch. “What if we didn’t have to?” she asks, causing you to scrunch your face in confusion.

“Be an asshole?” you ask her, not understanding her question. Sliding a hand onto her knee, you lean in, kissing her lips once before resting your forehead on hers. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she laughs, distancing your faces. “I mean, okay… but you don’t have to apologize for being overwhelmed.” Taking your cheeks in her hands, she plants a kiss in reply on yours, deepening it for a brief second until you raise your hands to her shoulders. Pulling away, she licks her lips before beginning again, those brown eyes shimmering as she speaks. “Let’s have a baby,” she says with a small shrug, the words taking you by surprise.

“What?” you ask her, cocking your head with the surprise bleeding through in your tone. This conversation was totally left field for you. Just earlier this month Lexa had been saying that she wasn’t ready to be a parent and that she was still learning to support herself (a conversation which didn’t include you in the equation at all and left you wondering with a lot of questions and very few answers). “Wait… What?” you repeat, your hands falling into your lap.

She removes her hands from your face, a smile spreading across her face as she repeats the words, making them real. This wasn’t a dream… this was reality. “Let’s have a baby.”

 


	5. APRIL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 and it's about time! Sorry for the lag friends. Work has been crazy... i've been having some difficulty balancing out some ideas... i went out of town for a regional tournament... things just got hectic, but anyway, here it is...
> 
> The chapter where we get a little bit more of Roma and Tris' backstory
> 
> The chapter where Lincoln begins to break my heart
> 
> The chapter that sets up some drama in the next 2 chapters that i'm really stoked about.
> 
> Don't forget to listen to the playlist. It's updated as I write and has all of the songs that are quoted or mentioned here on it: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4
> 
> and follow me on tumblr so we can chat and I can bounce ideas off of you!!! I love new friends!: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

**LEXA**

The inside of the waiting room was almost too much for your anxiety to handle. For last few weeks, you’ve found yourself here, waiting, reading outdated magazines, listening to the sighs of other men and women as the wasted hours of their days in the same ways as you. The nurses and staff knew your name which would be cool, if they actually held conversations with you… But Clarke was the focus of all of this. She was the client after all.

Much like the first time you found yourself in a waiting room for Clarke surrounded by the aroma of sanitizer and the sounds of other passers-by shuffling around you, the anxiety that bubbled in your chest left you feeling the vomit rising through your throat. It was all too familiar as you listened to the sounds of others breathing in labored, forced tones. Unlike the last time, however, there wasn’t the eminent, impending dread of losing everything you’ve ever loved. Not this time.

And after the first hour of near silence, the ringing in your phone was a welcome treat, especially when a picture of your brother lifting your younger sister over his head flashed across your screen. It had been a week or so since you’ve talked with Lincoln outside of texts so it shouldn’t have surprised you that he called…

But it should at the same time.

“What’s up Brometheus?” you ask, watching as the man next to you snorts a small laugh over the magazine in his hands-- one that you’ve read at least twice now.

Before you can even process the conversation that’s occurring, Lincoln’s angry growl is filling your hears, causing you to shift in your seat. “Why didn’t you tell me that you guys were trying to have a baby?” he asks in more of a shout than you could have anticipated.

“Wait, what?” you ask, your shoulders dropping. This was supposed to be a secret. No one was supposed to know about the hours that you had spent in this clinic. No one was supposed to know about the plans. No one was supposed to know about the paint swatches and baby books that had filled a corner of your bedroom-- not until it took. “How do you know?” your question sounds more like an accusation and the others in the waiting room are all beginning to awkwardly shift in their seats, eyes jolting quickly between you and their devices or magazines, all trying not to focus on you when your eyes meet theirs. You want to care, but you can’t.

“Clarke told Octavia you dumb fuck,” your brother mocks, the tone in his voice giving away his true anger in spite of the attempts to hide it. “Why couldn’t you just tell me?” The silence on your end prompts him to continue with his interrogation and helps buffer your rage, if only for a moment. “Do you think you’re honestly ready for a kid?” he asks, forcing the bitterness back up into your throat.

Who the fuck does he think he is to question you?

“Were you?” you bite back, suddenly taking the offensive. You can’t even explain why you’re upset. This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go.

A loud snort exits Lincoln’s line in your ear and you can tell that he’s catching on to your emotions, feeding off of the negativity. “I didn’t have a fucking choice Lexa. You’re choosing this. I didn’t…”

And that did it.

That was the end of it for you.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you beg, practically shouting. Rising to your feet, you’re suddenly overcome with the brooding anger in your chest, glancing around as all eyes meet you.  The uncomfortable throat clears and shifting of weight in chairs forces your legs to the door, realizing how much of a scene you were making over a phone call. How uncharacteristic. “Don’t you make that boy sound like a regret. That’s my nephew you fuckboy.” Now that you’re outside, your language and volume intensifies, as if the four walls with informational posters and detailed in vitro packets was stopping you.

“And he’s my son,” Lincoln reminds you- this argument having taken a weird turn that you weren’t expecting. “But I’m just saying-- I don’t think you’re ready.”

Gritting your teeth, you bite back your words as a passerby enters the clinic, walking past you with a smile. Once the door behind you clicks closed, the argument continues, words flooding from your lips with no hesitation. “I don’t think that your opinion matters.”

As he inhales deeply and sighs on the other line, you can feel his attempts to calm himself-- something that the two of you have never been good at. “Look, Lexa,” another sigh. “I’m just saying-- you two have seen so much… have you honestly had time to deal with it all…”

“Have you?” you ask back, the tinge in your tone obviously cutting him as you can practically hear his jaw clenching. “I mean, have you dealt with your shit? What about Tris? What about me? Are you done dealing with the fact that we’re living our lives and you don’t have a say in that?” Silence. “Have you dealt with the fact that you no longer have control over us?” Silence. “What about the idea that you’re no longer free to do whatever the fuck you please?” Silence. “That you have to support someone now and you’re just fucking pissed off that we don’t?” Silence. “I mean, does it even matter what you have to say Lincoln? This is Clarke and I’s decision… not yours…”

The silence that he’s been holding in for so long shows itself as anything but stillness as the words tidal wave through the speaker, flooding your ears with shouts through what you can only assume to be his tears. “Fucking hell Lexa, what the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks at the end of it all, prompting your final explosion-- the catharsis of the entire argument.

“You, Lincoln,” you begin, throwing a hand into the air as if you’re waving the words away to find him-- a carrier pigeon bringing him the anger and rage that you were conveying. “It’s not your life so just fuck off.”

With one final word, the conversation ends. “Fine,” is all that Lincoln has to offer, hanging up the call and leaving you with more words to say as you stand in silence, watching his picture fade from your screen as a car passes around you, turning quickly into a parking spot.

Without hesitation, your fingers scroll over your contacts, flipping between members of your family to vent to before you reach her-- the source of all of this. Clicking send, you’re met with a small section of a ringback tone before voice that you were almost just as angry at answers. “Hello?” Octavia asks, the sounds of her car radio and turn signal in the background stealing your thoughts. “Lexa?” she begs of you as the clicking stops and the song in the background shifts to some radio commercial, marketing at its finest.

“Just leave us alone, aright?” is all that you can get out, the words that you want to say backing up in your throat, choking you as you fumble through your phrase. “We don’t need you telling us how to live our lives.”

With that, the brief silence on the other line is broken by Octavia’s confusion. “Are you high?” she asks, a small, angry chuckle carrying the words to you, her tone raising and falling with, no doubt, her chest as she laughs. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The fact that she’s laughing only makes it worst for you-- knowing that even if she doesn’t have a clue what you’re talking about, she’s not taking you seriously. Neither of them have taken you seriously. Neither of them believe you when you say that you can do this on your own. Neither of them trust you. “Just fuck off,” you shout, unable to gather any other words to express yourself before you hang up the phone, slamming down on the red end call button with no remorse. Turning on your heels quickly, you’re met with the sight of your wife, confusion written across her sweet face as she stands on the corner of the curb, papers in hand.

“What’s going on?” she asks you, lifting an eyebrow as her foot steps down onto the gravel of the parking lot. You shake your head, apologizing to her as your arms wrap themselves around her shoulder, pulling her in tight. “Don’t apologize for being overwhelmed,” she begins, breathing in deeply as she buries her face into your neck. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie, swallowing back all of the bitter phrases that have been choking you for the past twenty minutes. It was over. It was done-- and there’s no need to carry it on.

The bridges may be burned.

But they had to die so that you and Clarke may live…

Or at least maybe…

\---

**CLARKE**

As your wife’s stress levels increase with work and school, the signs become more apparent to you-- but that doesn’t mean that they don’t catch you off guard. In fact, more times than not, despite walking on eggshells and tiptoeing through conversations, you find yourself at the end of a brutal argument and begging her to come to bed… even if the signs are always there.

Giveaway #1: The music that is drowning out your thoughts as you make your way to the bedroom is almost too loud to even handle, even with the door closed. As you skirt in through the crack in the door, you close it quickly as if her thoughts would escape into the great big world if you lingered in the doorway too long. The volume of her music is pretty much indicative of her stress level-- a positive correlation if you’ve ever seen one.

Giveaway #2: Her eyes never leave her book. Even after you slide in next to her and place a hand on her arm, her focus stays rigidly fixed on the notes in her lap, eyes scanning quickly over the pages as she lifts a water bottle to her lips, holding it there for a moment while her eyes unfocused to process the words that she just read. She never once looks up to greet you.

Giveaway #3: She’s in the same exact spot that she was when you left her 8 hours ago. The only change in scenery that you can tell is the addition of water bottles scattered across the bed, more papers and highlighters littering the area around her knees, and the shuffling of the playlist between alternative and folk music to waltz her through studying.

Honestly, these three signs should have been enough for you to stop, but it wasn’t. You’ve spent the past 10 days dancing around conversations and distancing yourself for her sake and it was becoming mind numbing. It had been over two weeks since you’ve felt her hands on your body… since you’ve heard her breathing hitch in your ear. It’s been over two weeks since you’ve felt wanted- since you’ve felt necessary… and honestly, you’re over it.

“Hey,” you speak, sliding your fingers over her skin, stroking slightly just under her elbow. “Have you eaten anything?” you ask, the small shake in her hand as it lowers the water bottle from her lips gives away the answer that she refuses to say. “Do you want me to make you something?” a small tinge of angst bubbling in your words. If there’s one thing that irritates you more than when she snaps at you while speaking it’s when she refuses to speak to you.

“No Clarke… I’m fine,” she bites the inside of her cheek, her eyes closing as she breathes in deep.

With the changing of the song, you pull your hand back, the small synthetic sound and steel guitar coordinating with the skipping of your heart beat. The withdraw is obvious and the fury bubbling up in your chest is becoming more apparent. “Just trying to help,” you mumble, lifting yourself from the bed. Maybe that wasn’t the best comment to make, but neither was her snark.

“You know,” she begins, exhaling as she speaks. “Can you just not for a moment?” Her focus is still planted on her book, even through the page turn and the highlighting of a section, the marker replacing the water bottle between her lips.

_Grant me this courtesy; let this be dead to me. It's easy when my eyes are shut, I'd say it but..._

Without thinking, the words come from your mouth, carrying your feet over to the door. “As you wish,” you mumble, reaching a hand to the door knob before Lexa’s voice draws you back in, filling you with rage.

_It's so self-righteous, cold and pious. The goodbyes are kissed, I'm better than this._

“Fuck off Clarke, stop acting like this.”

_I'd rather be obvious, than losing my consciousness. I'm happy to see it now, you don't know how to..._

You turn quickly on your heel, eyes catching hers for the first time since you entered the room. “What?” you ask her, tossing your hands in the air and allowing them to fall to your side. “I mean, at least something would be getting fucked, right?” you say, the truth finally coming out.

_Earn your reward, speechless once more. The goodbyes are kissed, I'm better than this._

“Are you serious right now,” she laughs, sarcasm filling her words. “You’re interrupting my studying to argue about sex?”

_Please keep quiet, I don't buy it. Your Patience seems dead to me, everything's dead to me._

“No Lexa,” you begin to correct her before you sigh, rubbing your forehead with both of your hands before throwing them back down and turning towards the door. “You know what, never mind… I’ll leave.”

_I'd love to see you hurt like I do-They're only words, baby its words._

“Actually,” Lexa interrupts you again, the slamming of her book turning your body to face her again. “I’ll leave… because I’m obviously the issue here…” As she pushes herself from the bed, she makes her way past you, avoiding contact as she brushes through the doorway and towards the front door, the sound of the door slamming ending her migration through the house.

_The goodbyes are kissed,_

“What the fuck?” you call after her before you hear the door shut, leaving you in the silence that you helped create.

_I'm better than this._

\---

**LEXA**

With your car still parked in the driveway, you find your hand cramped as they tighten and loosen around the steering wheel over and over again. This is not the first time that you’ve been in this spot, engine running, unable to shift the car into reverse. In fact, every major argument that led to you leaving the house resulted in this-- your inability to drive while angry.

It has taken Clarke months now, but for the first time ever, she’s followed you outside, sliding her body into the passenger seat of your jeep and closing the door behind her, sealing just you two and the music inside, keeping the world at bay for a bit longer.

As the music continues, the piano and synth music dances through the air, twirling around your heads and into the silence that surrounds you.

_I still love you_

“Why didn’t you go?” she asks you, her blonde hair cascading across her face while her eyes fall to the hands wringing circles in her lap.

_I still want you_

You’ve asked yourself that question a million times. Every time that you storm from the house, leaving Clarke in your wake, and stomp out to your car, you find it hard to grip the gear shift… even more so to slide it into reverse… and impossible to release the break, rolling out into the street. In fact, you’ve never made it to that point- you’ve never made it past where you are right now… Sitting with the radio blasting whatever sad song decided to play at the moment.

_I still need you_

“I can’t,” is all you can say, your hands still holding tight to the steering wheel. “I can’t drive when angry… not since…”

_Afterall_

The silence that draws from your last word finishes the sentence for you, but Clarke reinforces the idea, repeating the phrase that flashed in your head. “Not since me.”

_For better or worse_

You nod, your hands falling to your lap.

_Sickness and health_

She reads you like a book…

_Til death do us part_

Every time…

_Afterall_

Turning your head towards her, you brush your brown hair from your eyes, lacing the locks behind your ears and biting your lip to hold back the tears that were beginning to form. “I’m afraid to.”

_Please don't leave me_

Clarke nods, her eyes coming to meet yours. “I’m still scared too,” she says, one hand making its way across the console to your lap. As she strokes the skin peeking through the tears in your jeans, the memory of your first meeting surging to mind, a smile dances across your lips.

_Afterall_

“I love you,” you mumble to her, reaching a hand out to pull her close. With your fingers lacing through her hair, you breathe in her scent as her words reverberate through your chest.

_Will you keep me?_

“What was it like for you?” she asks, resting her head on your shoulder. “When you thought you lost me?”

_Afterall_

How do you even begin to explain to her what they depths of hell felt like?

_Please don’t leave me_

How do you even begin to explain to her what that degree of heartbreak felt like?

_Afterall_

Like death?

_Will you keep me?_

Like hell?

_Afterall_

Like losing everything?

_I still love you_

“Like I should have died,” you finally explain, taking a deep breath.

_Afterall_

\---

**LINCOLN**

As if the drive to Kansas City wasn’t awkward enough with your Scourge in the passenger seat and your sister’s car behind you, sitting with Harper between the two of you for the first 20 minutes of the season opener for FCKC totally did it for you-- even without the knowledge of your impending doom as the Scourge sat just three bleachers below, waving at you with his long, dark fingers each time joy attempted to take over your heart, reminding you that no matter what your sister did, no matter how hard you cheered, no matter what-- you were his. Something about the way that he carried himself, the way that he blended in with the crowd and the way that he managed to sneak into each situation unnoticed save for the occasional twitch of your bicep or sudden cringe from your lips made it clear-- you were hiding it well… at least for now. That didn’t make it any better.

That didn’t make it any easier.

And as you watch your baby sister sprint across the field, following the ball and following her dreams, you wonder where yours went. You had such great plans. First was the wedding which was perfection-- except for him. Then the opening of the academy which was perfection-- except for him. And the birth of your son which was perfection-- except for him. And now watching Tris completely dominate this game which should be perfection-- except there he is, reminding you of exactly how far you’ve fallen… reminding you that this is nothing new… reminding you that you’ve been here for years now…

_Stumbling through the back door, you can’t fight the small chuckle that’s escaping your lips while you knock over the small end table holding your step-father’s keys and wallet-- the same wallet that you stole $30 from earlier this afternoon before you disappeared into the night, chasing the high life of high school._

_High school was not delicate and it took no hostages, leaving only chaos in its wake if you couldn’t keep up. Good news for you, however, was that you had friends-- friends who took care of you. Friends who understood when you said that your dad wasn’t around. Friends who believed in your baggage. Friends who, unlike your parents, could sympathize. Friends who would sit around under the overpass, drinking beers with you and talk about the real world with you. Friends who treated you like an adult._

_“Man, shut up before your father hears you!” Emmerson nudges your shoulder, catching the keys before they hit the floor and placing them gently on the mat next to your feet. “You act like you’ve never tweaked before! Fuck!” His whispers are not as quiet as the shaggy blond seems to think they are and you place a finger over your lip to remind him of his volume. “Man, fuck you,” he laughs, shoving you with his palms when you take a step in front of him._

_Leaning back, you nudge the boy gently with your shoulder, remembering just in time that he is quite a bit smaller than you. While you’ve lived a life of sports and athletics, Emmerson chose a different path. While you were the calm, quiet, popular boy in class, he was the clown, small and lanky but loud with opinions and conspiracies. While you were well constructed, Emmerson was a trainwreck… and maybe that’s what attracted you to him. Something about the way that he spoke and the theories that he held about the school system and government funding seemed so rogue-- so rebellious-- so different from what you’ve always been-- so much like what you’ve always wanted to be._

_“Dude, is your sister home?” he asks as the door shuts gently behind you two. Making your way through the kitchen, you carefully avoid the chairs and table in spite of the fuzzy feeling in your brain. The greys and golds that illuminate your path keep you from bumping into everything while reminding you of the small burn in your nostrils. They always said that your first time would hurt-- that you’d get a nose bleed-- that you’d cry. They were wrong._

_Turning your head to stare at Emmerson, you can’t stop your neck from rolling with the weight of your scull. “Which one?” you ask as it bobs back into place, your eyes shifting under the light of the hallway._

_“The hot one?” your new friend laughs as he punches your arm. “Not the baby… the quiet one.”_

_“Man, fuck off. That’s my sister,” a gag escapes your throat as you nudge him back, continuing past Lexa’s room. You can’t find it in yourself to tell Emmerson that the door to his left is hers… That’s just too much of a conversation that you don’t want to be having…_

_But Lexa does that for you, swinging the door wide and reaching a hand out to grab you, pulling you by the shoulders of your jacket into her room and against the door frame. “What the fuck is wrong with you,” she asks, practically shouting. Before you can even turn your head, you hear the back door slamming, Emmerson gone, leaving you at the mercy of your sister. “Are you stoned?”_

_“No,” the word makes its way from your lips before your brain even tells it to._

_“Don’t fucking lie,” her hand meets your face quickly-- not the first time that you’re sister has ever hit you, but probably the hardest. This wasn’t playful sibling banter like you were used to. This brought a tear to your eye and burned from the redness swelling up on your cheek. With her left hand still gripping you tight against the wall, you could feel her pulse through the knuckles digging their way into your chest._

_Or was that your heartbeat?_

_Panic._

_“I drank at the fort, shit Lexa,” you shrug her arm away, pushing her back by her shoulders. Puffing your chest out, you sell your lie, watching her arms and shoulders drop as her eyes scan you over._

_Hold it together._

_“I mean, don’t act like you haven’t come home slizzered…” That’s good. If you bring attention to her fuck ups, maybe she’ll forget yours…._

_Keep going._

_“And don’t act like you don’t have shit to hide,” you begin, giving her another light shove and watching the surprise flash across her face. “I’ve got stories on you that would make your father cry.”_

_Her father…_

_Not yours…_

_That’s good…_

_Create distance…_

_“And what about you sneaking in?” you continue even though you don’t have to. She’s already given up and this is evident by the way that she’s backing away from you, her hands in front of her chest in surrender. “What if I tell your dad about the screen on your window?”_

_“Okay,” she interrupts you, her voice rising in your silence. “Shit, I get it…” When her eyes meet yours you’re instantly met with guilt. This wasn’t you… This was new._

_And that’s when you see him-- sitting on the corner of Lexa’s bed is a new face… one that’s waving to you with long, shadowy fingers… welcoming you in…_

You see, Keith did his best. He did everything that a father could have done. He did more than your father would have done. But it wasn’t enough. Rehab and summer camps and distractions and therapy and sports were all just a Band-Aid on a massive wound-- holding back the blood flow for the time period but when all of those things came to an end-- when your stress levels began to rise-- when Emmerson found his way back into your life, the wound opened up again and flooded into every aspect of your life.

Apparently, if you fail too many drug tests, you’re discharged from the military. When you’re kicked out of the army, you have to find a place to go. When you have nowhere to go, you end up back in Macomb, Oklahoma. When you end up back in Macomb, Oklahoma, you’re inevitably going to run into old high school friends. When you run into high school friends, old memories surface. When old memories surface, old habits arise and that’s exactly what happened…While out with Bellamy at the bar one night after your shift, Emmerson approaches you, reminding you of all of the old times that you enjoyed riding the high into the night-- and reintroducing you to an old friend with his long, shadowy fingers outstretched to greet you.

And now that same old friend was here, watching you as you attempted to ignore him, focusing on the field in front of you, your eyes catching those of your baby sister-- the same eyes that you shared with your mother. She waves to you before running towards the center of the field, patting a teammate on the shoulder as she passes through. She looks good. She looks healthy-- which is more than could probably be said for you these days. She looks light, not weighted down by guilt or baggage. Unlike you, she doesn’t have a Ziploc in her pocket that carries the weight of your guilt. Unlike you, she seems to have it together.

Just as the ball is kicked back into the field, the crowd erupts into shouts, foam fingers and team towels waving wildly as the players sprint to make their claim, your sister dodging quickly past one of her rivals. The orange and pale blue of the opposing team was quickly drown out by the royal colors of Kansas City as your sister’s team steals the ball with a thunder erupting in the crowd. One of her teammates passes the ball just before Sky Blue’s number 7 dives, attempting to steal. When the ball touches your sister’s feet, it’s as if everyone around you knows that it’s time to get shit done. With ease, Tris navigates through the players on the field, swerving left and dodging right-- passing the ball under other players as she gracefully sprints full force towards the opponent’s goal. Without hesitation, she kicks sharply, bending ball right past the goalie and into the net. And with that the thunder returns, booming around you while the team celebrates on the field, a dogpile commencing around your little sister.

Glancing around to celebrate with your family, your eyes awkwardly make contact with Lexa’s and you both straighten up, turning again each other quickly as Harper looks between you, eyes shifting back and forth.

“For fuck’s sake, you guys need to grow up,” she shouts, tossing her hands in the air. “You can stay angry at each other until the day you die, I’m alright with that… but you won’t ruin this for her, do you understand me?” The blonde points out at your sister who is jogging past a teammate, slapping her on the back on her way to the right corner of the field. “She’s worked too hard to make you two assholes proud and you’re  not going to ruin this by being angry about some fucking words passed over the phone, okay?” Lexa opens her mouth for a moment, raising a finger in protest before Harper turns completely to face her, her small hand slapping your sister’s fingers down. “No. There’s no excuse… after everything that the two of you have seen… you can figure this out.” The blonde is fuming, practically huffing as she speaks. Turning back towards the field, she crosses her arms across her chest quickly, ignoring the stares of Bellamy from the bleacher below her as she says, “Now I’m going to watch our own little Amy Wambach kill it out there, okay? And you’re all going to shut up or go home…” Bellamy blinks a few more times, glancing between you two and his girlfriend before he shrugs slightly, cringing and turning back towards the field.

“Look,” you begin, turning towards Lexa. “I’m sorry.” The words seem forced and fake, but you’re trying none the less. “I just…. I want to protect you…” you stumble, trying to gather yourself as you cram your hands in your pockets, suddenly reminded of the weight they hold.

“I don’t need you to save me anymore Lincoln,” a smile breaks across Lexa’s lips as slides her arm through yours, wrapping her fingers around your forearm. Forcing a smile, you pull her in just in time to hear her say “i’m sorry too.”

But who is going to save me?

“I’m just nervous,” she adds as she pulls away. Tightening your grip around her hand, you kiss her forehead and turn towards the field just in time to watch your younger sister steal the ball, kicking it over her head from behind to the front and starting to run with it. She passes it to a teammate who passes it back once Tris has broken through the line. When her teammate passes it, however, the ball leaves the ground and for this brief moment, you swear you can hear Tris breathing as the ball makes contact with her head, shooting straight into the goal before the crowd erupts with excitement. Tris crouches, rubbing her forehead with her hands before her teammates tackle her to the ground and your family adds into the cheering. You watch with Lexa, feeling her heavy breathing beside you as you both stare at Tris, her cringing through the cheers indicative of what you’re both feeling.

“It’s just a headache,” you reassure your sister, trying to convince yourself as well. When your own hand reaches up to your temple, Tris’ eyes raise to meet yours. She lifts her fingers to her lips, kissing them before pointing up at you and Lexa. As you feel Lexa smile beside you, you wrap one arm around her pointing to your little sister with the other. Tris smiles deeper, running towards her teammates as they crowd in the middle of the field. “She’s going to be fine,” you say to Lexa, squeezing her tighter. “We’re all going to be fine.”

With your last addition, you look down three bleachers below you, making eye contact with the Scourge. He’s waving to you with his long fingers, reminding you that even in your joy…

You are his…

\---

**TRIS**

The excitement of your team’s victory pales in comparison to the excitement that’s filling your body right now. As you stand to greet your friends and teammates, you make eye contact with your sister, the anticipation radiating from her as well. In fact, she was the only person that you told. She was the only person that knew. And ever since you arrived at the restaurant with your team, Lexa has been making eyes at you, asking you without words if it was still happening.

And yes.

Yes it was.

_Walking into Stats class on that Thursday afternoon shouldn’t have been fun. With the number of times that you’ve skipped this class to hang out in Coach Byrne’s office, your 97 average was surprising… almost as surprising as the fact that the teacher actually knew your name. But stats was easy for you-- in fact, most of school was overly easy for you and because of that it bored you-- until her._

_“Class, we have a new student joining us today,” Miss Mykulak greeted the group as she passed through the classroom, setting her papers on the desk and sounding entirely too much like an episode of a sitcom. Groaning under your breath, you pull your ear buds from your varsity hoodie pocket, popping them into your ears and pressing play on the phone you’ve kept well concealed until now. As you begin drowning out the noise with that of the rhythmic sound of Explosions in the Sky, the shuffling from the doorway catches your eye and draws it away from the mindless doodle that were pouring from the blue pen in your left hand._

_It’s not necessarily that the brunette was the kind that would stand out in the crowd. She wasn’t particularly different, but something about the way that she held her shoulders when she talked and how she awkwardly shuffled her converse covered feet under her  black skinny jeans and red flannel made you actually want to hear what she had to say. The awkward smile through her dark hair that cascaded across her face and how she waved uncomfortably with her fingers instead of her whole hand before retreating into a shell of hugging her own hips suddenly made you wonder what it felt like to have those hands hugging you._

_God, if you didn’t think you were gay before, this girl was sealing that deal for you._

_Her lips moved as if she was speaking and made you suddenly remember the earbuds pumping the noise through your head. Reaching up to remove the headphones, you pull them from your ears just in time to hear her say “and I’ve been recruited to play midfield on the soccer team-- so there’s that.” Before you can stop it, a goofy grin spreads across your face just as the new girl’s eyes meet yours._

_Jesus Christ…._

_“Thanks Roma. We’re really excited to have you,” Mykulak says, ushering the new girl to an open seat towards the front of the class and beginning her lecture. You’ve never hated Mykulak before, but suddenly, you do-- if nothing else, because she stopped this new, interesting human being from speaking when you could have listened to her for the whole period. Honestly, you couldn’t tell anyone what today’s lecture was to save your life, but god could you tell them about how the new girl’s tank top sat on her shoulders after she removed her flannel and how she chewed on her pen when she thought. You may not have learned anything about stats, but you sure took an entire page worth of notes that day, every line filled with something new to ask Roma or some observation about the way that she ran her fingers through her hair or grazed the top of the paper gracefully with her pen._

_Again, if you didn’t think you were gay before, this girl was sealing that deal for you._

_\--_

_The lights from the field flicker slightly as the rain falls in sheets outside of the soccer complex, blanketing the ground around your car as you wait. Practice had only been out for 20 minutes and the rain gave you the perfect reason to be hanging out in the lobby-- although the floods outside had nothing to do with your pacing. When the door to the locker room closed behind you, a sudden kaleidoscope of butterflies escaped from your gut, tickling their way through your arms and into your fingertips._

_Turning almost too quickly for it to be on accident, you smile at the new brunette, dropping the book in your hands as your lips peak into a smile. “Well fuck,” you mumble, her small chuckle causing you to instantly forgive yourself for your clumsy, cliché’ actions._

_“Here,” Roma smiles, bending over with you to grab the copy of A Tale of Two Cities, handing it off to you with a graze of your fingertips. While both of you were still crouching over where the book fell, your eyes lift to meet hers and if there had ever been a time good enough to thank god for your life, it was now. “This is a good one,” she adds, her voice serenading you as you melt to a puddle on the ground, joining the rain water outside, your shoulders dropping with relaxation and your knees lifting you to stand in sequence with her._

_“Haven’t read it,” you instantly regret saying, the cliché’ jock bleeding from your existence. “I don’t really read,” you attempt to correct, failing miserably as Roma’s face drops slightly._

_Save it._

_“I mean, that’s my sister’s thing… I’m a math person.”_

_Shut up._

_Shut up._

_Shut up._

_Roma’s quick chuckle and hand on your arm calms the voices in your head that are arguing about how miserably you’re ruining this situation just in time for you to hear her say, “Oh yeah, you’re in my stats class right?” With a nod, you can’t fight back the smile spreading across your face. “So, I’m totally lost on today’s lecture, can you possibly walk me through it? We weren’t at this chapter yet at my old school.”_

_Before you even remember that you know nothing about today’s lecture because of her, you nod, another goofy smile spreading across her face. “Sure… Are you free now?” you ask her, her enthusiastic grin sending those butterflies out like messengers to your hands to reach for the door._

_Coffee and stats it is…._

_Coffee and stats._

\--

Those same butterflies that carried you through entirely too many coffee breaks and too many study sessions and too many literature tutoring nights trapped in the school’s library or the 24hr diner surrounded by books and highlighters were now lifting you to your feet at the table of yours and Roma’s favorite restaurant. With the eyes of your family and your teammates on you, you clear your throat, biting back the awkwardness and anxiety that was filling your chest.

“So, almost three years ago, I met this girl,” you begin, smiling down at Roma who chuckles, blushing as her face falls to the table and you continue to speak. “And had I not, I wouldn’t be here today… You see, a little over two years ago I almost died.” As your eyes scan the room, they meet with Clarke’s and much to your surprise, instead of finding your sister and seeking refuge in her smile, you watch your sister-in-law as tears swell in her eyes. She knows exactly what you’re meaning-- and although she’s not the only one at the table who does, she probably knows more than most. “My family here went through a really rough time and I almost lost two of the most important people in the world to me-- my sister and her wife. When Clarke was almost stolen from us, I watched as my sister, and the rest of our family spiraled in and out of depressions, cycling back and forth and living with this constant fear of not knowing what tomorrow would hold.” With your eyes still fixed on Clarke, you offer one, final silent nod to her, a half-smile peeking through the corner of her lip before you turn your head to look down at your girlfriend. “But there were a few things that I knew to be constant… One was soccer… and more importantly, Roma.” The collective group smiles around the table illuminated the room as your girlfriend buried her face deeper into her hands, a small giggle somehow finding its way through the mass of her hair as you continued to speak.

Swallowing down another lump, your rehearsed speech fell by the wayside as she glanced up at you, taking your hand in hers.                                                                                   

This was the end for you.

\---

**Lincoln**

As you watched your sister awkwardly fumble through her words, the picture that was being painted was becoming more and more clear. The way in which she spoke, attempting to make this sound like her grand victory speech, but always managing to find a way to bring the attention back to her girlfriend…

The way that she glanced over at your older sister who was grinning like a madman…

The way that Lexa’s hand managed to find Clarke’s and squeeze it under the table before she whispered something into the blonde’s ear…

You may have been left out of this conspiracy, but that didn’t mean that you hadn’t caught on to what was happening…

And if you were catching on, surely Roma was as well…

Tris wasn’t as smooth as she thought she was…

But it was nice none the less…          

Especially when your eyes met your younger sister’s and you could see the joy written across them.

She was happy.

And that was all that mattered…

Even with your Scourge sitting just a few tables back, sipping his wine as he maintained his focus on you, eyeballing you through the hustle of wait staff and patrons alike. ‘No,’ you think to yourself, your shaking hands finding your glass of water instead of the bag in your pocket. ‘You can do this.’ As if reading your thoughts, the Scourge shakes his head, his menacing grin spreading smoothly across his perfect, clear face.

“And that’s when I knew for sure, with my head in her lap, tears in my eyes, and her hands running through my hair-- this girl was made for me. There’s a movie from 1985,” your sister’s voice interrupts your focus from the Scourge, bringing you back to the table with your family. “Called St. Elmo’s Fire where a character says ‘She’s not just a girl…. She is the only evidence of God I have seen on this entire planet’.” As her eyes find Roma’s again, you lift your glass to your mouth to hide your smile, wishing more than anything that Octavia was here to share this moment. With Myles being too young to travel this far, she opted to stay home and suddenly, you regret encouraging it. “That’s never been more true than with you,” Tris says through her half smile that she shares with Lexa. There are moments when you see you mother before you, and other’s when you see your older sister’s twin, but more days than not now, you’re seeing just Tris-- no one else. She’s made her own person and she’s taken on her own identity and, even though you never thought it would happen, your sister has grown up.

As your sister kneels down in front of her girlfriend and Roma, with tears flooding her cheeks, practically tackles her with her three lettered answer, the table erupts in cheers that would have put the soccer field to shame. Very rarely had you ever seen your sister blush, but in that moment, there was not a single shade of red that could have shined brighter than her cheeks, and not a single smile was wider than yours…

Until he ushered you forward, practically pulling you from your chair by the collar of your shirt, tugging your tie behind him as you drug your feet, attempting to stop yourself. He had always been stronger than you though.

“I don’t see why you avoid it,” he laughs as you pull the bag from your pocket, your fingers trembling as they open the small creases in the plastic. “I always win.”

Blinking a few times, you fight off the shiver running up your spine as you lift the small remnants of the fix to your face just in time to tremble dramatically, dropping the contents of the bag onto the cold, white, tile floor below.

“Fuck!” you shout, your right hand reaching out to the brick wall in front of you, a balled fist making contact with the painted concrete. Unaware of the pulsing in your fingers or the swelling of your knuckles, you drop to your knees in the stall, scooping the scattered remains of your high into a small pile in front of you as the Scourge laughs at your misfortune, standing over you and shadowing you against the light.

“You never stood a fucking chance,” he mocks, placing a hand on your back as you attempt to inhale the dust from the floor, choking slightly as the tainted air catches in your chest. It’s not a lot, but it’s just enough for the chemicals to enter your bloodstream, the surge filling your brain with the lights that you crave. As his hand makes its way up the back of your head to your forehead, you feel him push your forehead back, thrusting your face to the lights above. Watching the colors dance from the fluorescent tubes, you hear the door click open just in time to jump to your feet and watch the Scourge slither back to the corner.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

“Linc?” Bellamy’s voice asks into the silence, a small knock on your stall door forcing the words from your mouth.

“Yeah, what’s up?” you ask, wiping your face and opening the door simultaneously. If there’s one thing that you had learned so far, it was that Bellamy was oblivious. In spite of everything, he was probably the dumbest of your friends-- the Scourge reassuring you of this belief every time the three of you were alone together.

“Just checking on you…. What happened to your hand?” The lag in his words was just enough for his eyes to find your swelling fingers, the blue matching the color of your button down as the pain suddenly found its way to the front of your brain.

“Yeah,” you try to play it cool, shaking your hand out as if it’s no big deal. “I slipped in the stall a minute ago and hit it on the wall.”

Not the most obscure lie you could think of…

The Scourge laughed from his corner behind Bellamy, reassuring you that it was alright.

“Okay, well, do you need to go to the hospital?” your friend asks, concern leaking in through every word. He takes your hand in his, poking your fingers gently with his thumb before you pull back, withdrawing into yourself.

“No,” is all you can say, almost too quickly to maintain your cool. “I’m fine.” Your recovery is sloppy and his expression and head tilt are giving it away. The curly haired man is catching on.

“What the hell, Lincoln?” he asks, his brows furrowed and voice changing in pitch as you pull your hand back. “Your fingers are completely broken.” He reaches out for you again, but you can’t let him get that close-- the Scourge tells you so.

“Just fuck off!” You practically shout, pushing your friend away by his shoulders, instantly regretting it with the pounding of your fingers through your arm. You can feel the pulsating of their brokenness as you clench a fist at your side, tightening and loosening your fingers just to feel something. “I wish everyone would just leave me the fuck alone,” you add, turning against the man and charging out the door, slamming it shut behind you. Passing through the thin hallway, you move just in time to catch sight of Lexa as you exit the building, her questioning eyes meeting yours. It takes everything in you, but when you hear the voice of the Scourge reassuring you, you suddenly find it in yourself to keep your expression the same.

“Don’t show your weakness,” you hear his whisper to you as he falls into step with you. “They’ll only let you down.”

They’ll only let you down.

 


	6. MAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright my friends, here's the next chapter. Sorry it's taken so long to get it up but i've been working on a lot of things. As an apology, i've made this chapter over 10K words so please accept that.
> 
> CHECK OUT THE SOUNDTRACK: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4
> 
> ADD ME ON TUMBLR: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

**CLARKE**

“Jesus Crist,” you grumble, toothbrush sticking from the side of your mouth as you close the moisturizer bottle, rubbing the cream colored liquor into your forehead. With a small gag, you spit the toothpaste into the sink, rinsing off your toothbrush before you place it back into the lighthouse shaped holder. Drying your hands on the hand towel, you groan as the music in the bedroom gets louder-- no doubt Lexa’s attempts to drown out your sighs and angry rebuttles.

It’s been like this for weeks… months… the arguments surfacing, small at first and then growing into a behemoth that neither of you expected, small things building up and cause the explosion. First it was the way that you didn’t dry the glass and left it in the drying rack. That prompted your upset about how Lexa hadn’t greeted you when you came into the room after the longest shift of your life. Lexa made some backhanded comment about your mother working you bare (which was probably not actually backhanded, but you know what? Fuck her… you’re mad and she’s not realizing it….) which opened the door for another heated conversation where you said some things that you shouldn’t and she left the house. But as usual, she never left the driveway. Instead, she sat in her car, you watching from the living room window, with her head tossed back, music blasting through her Jeep’s speakers. After about an hour she returned to the inside, but nothing had changed.

You were still tense.

And one single conversation was still ringing in your brain.

“Do you work tomorrow?” your wife asks you, sliding her legs under the sheets. Honestly, you couldn’t tell if she was even listening to the words out of your mouth-- her distraction noted while she avoided eye contact and rolled away from you, cocooning herself into the red and black sheets.

“All day, always,” you reply, flipping the light switch on your way from the bathroom and following in suite, wrapping yourself into the blankets that you climb under, turning your back to her.

You know that feeling that you get when you feel like you need to sneeze? Or when you are unable to finish a cough? A similar feeling is building in your brain. It happens every time. All you want is to touch her-- not even sexually… Just to be near her. You feel it in your bones, aching in your fingertips as you fight off the urge to just back your body into hers. The awkwardness in the air tells you that she feels it too as she shuffles under the sheets, moving her legs like she can’t get comfortable.

“If you have something to say, just do it,” she speaks, almost inaudible through the comforter around her face. After many moments of darkened silence, you listen to her exhale before her words begin again.

It’s not that you don’t have a million things to say to her. It’s not that you don’t have questions to ask her. Honestly, it’s more like you not knowing the words to begin. A conversation began with you and Bellamy at the hospital today and the words were still reeling through your brain on repeat.

\---

**BELLAMY**

“It was a hard decision, but you kind of gave her no choice,” your laugh filled the hall, echoing through the emptiness of silence-- a small joy for the moment. With your elbows on the desk, you lean in watching as Clarke picked at her lunch with her fork. It was obvious that she wasn’t planning on eating it-- the bowl had been sitting on that desk through three different code pink calls, calling out to Clarke, who was not answering. In fact, she hadn’t answered in days and for the first time, you were noticing the similar telltale signs… The dizziness when she stood… the darkened rings under her glacial eyes… the way that she seemed to be disappearing on you again…

It was happening again…

And this time, you didn’t know how to handle it.

At least last time you walked into the situation. Clarke Griffin had been a train wreck when you met her so drawing attention to her disorder wasn’t impossible-- especially when you lived with her. But now… now was different. Now she had Lexa. Now she was a different person. Now she had headaches, and sinus infections, and now she was mildly independent…

And now, you had already lost her once.

 “I mean, you basically had the most specific will out there-- so she didn’t know any better… you didn’t give her any other options.” You sigh, rubbing your eyes as you speak, attempting to brush away the thoughts at hand. Surely Clarke was fine… Clarke had been fine since the accident. It was as if the amnesia stole away that part of her…

Maybe it wasn’t anorexia…

Maybe it wasn’t bulimia…

Maybe it was stress…

It had been a hard day for you and your friend. Beginning at 4am, you had to deal with a fire breaking out due to some snotty teenagers smoking in a bathroom (code red), a crazed father’s failed attempt at abducting his daughter from the arms of her mother who he had put into the hospital (code white, yellow, and purple since the man holed up in a room with the two year old and refused to open the door), a school bus wreck with two deaths and sixteen injuries (code pink)…

And her mother-- which was almost as bad as the rest of the morning.

“What’s going through your head, Griffin?” you finally ask her, noting the way that her gaze has been fixed on her fork for minutes now. Nudging her from her thought with your fist on her shoulder, you receive a small smile from the blonde, her eyes still downward. “Is something up with you and the commander?” you ask, making your way to the rolling chair beside her, rolling it up as close as you could to her without sitting on her. Unholstering your tazer, you place it on the table, leaning back in the chair with your hands crossed over your curly, matted hair. “Because you know that you can talk to me, right?”

The glance that Clarke shot your way gave away her thoughts before her words even exited her mouth. “You’re her best friend though,” she mumbles, stabbing at the spinach in her bowl before leaving the fork with its victory. “I don’t want to start anything with you two…”

“Okay,” you can’t help but laugh, the wide smile across your lips carrying you forward to place a hand on her arm. “First off, are we twelve?” she smiles back, turning her bright blue eyes towards you. Over the years that you’ve known her, Clarke has gone through a lot of changes, but those eyes were always a constant-- always shining-- always perfect. “I’m not choosing sides in your relationship… She was my best friend when you broke up… but I still chose you.”

_I’ll always choose you._

“Yeah, but you had to… you lived with me,” the mumble from her mouth basically pulls her hand back for her, withdrawing the arm into her chest. She’s pulling away…

And you’re failing…

_Aren’t you listening? I’ll always choose you._

“Until you ran away,” you accidentally bite back, the past tasting more bitter across your tongue as you speak.

\---

**CLARKE**

Bellamy’s words bite deeply into you, tearing at the flesh and muscle covering your heart, exposing the organ to the damaging winds of the argument brewing in the air.

_Until you ran away…_

It echoes in your brain, leaving you with little silence to think as your mouth opens, the words at your frontal cortex pushing their way out. “I never meant to hurt you,” you apologize, your eyes falling to the floor below. As you trace a crack with the toe of your shoe, you wonder how this conversation turned this way so quickly. This was supposed to be about you-- it always was-- but somehow it wasn’t…

Which was also nice since you noticed Bellamy’s stare at your fork…

It’s not that you were avoiding eating.

It’s not that you were trying to lose weight.

It’s just that it was so natural…. So easy… so…

Perfect…

“Hey,” your friend’s hand reaches out, accompanying his words as his fingers lift your chin from gravity’s embrace. “Stop this, okay? I’m sorry… I didn’t…” He sighs through the stumbles, blinking his steely chestnut eyes three times before exhaling slowly and starting again. “The wound may not be fresh, Clarke, but it’s still a wound none the less.” He sighs, placing a bronzed hand on your knee, sliding his chair a little closer to yours. “Things haven’t been the same between us since you left…”

“It’s been over two years,” you remind him, suddenly craving distance. The amount of space between you wasn’t enough to house all of the feelings and all of the words that he was producing and the thought of drowning in them was almost overwhelming. Rolling your chair back just enough to breathe and turning towards the table to diffuse the blame, you reclaim your fork, looking for the perfect excuse to distance from your friend.

But this wasn’t it.

His eyes instantly fall back to the bowl in front of you as you swallow deeply, toying with the within the Styrofoam. “I know,” he mumbles, scratching at his jaw and turning his chair to mimic yours. “But you can’t tell me that you don’t feel it.”

Resisting the urge to nod, you think it over. He’s absolutely correct. From the night that you left Bellamy on the side of the high way in the rain, disappearing into a taxi and watching him through the rearview mirror simply wait for you stop, things had been different. You went from being his first go to, his confidant, his best friend to that roommate that he had after college. He went from being the only man in your life that you trusted, the only person to ever know your faults, the only person to ever care to just another friend at family game nights.

“Did we move on?” you ask him, the shudder escaping with your words as you bite your tongue, attempting to stop the tears.

_Not now._

_Not here._

“I don’t know how,” he turns, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Lifting his foot slightly, his black boots kick the bottom of your chair, turning you to face him. “I don’t know how to not care about you Clarke. I never have.”

With a smile across your face, you nudge him in return with your tennis shoe covered right foot. “Me neither. I’ve missed you.”

There’s something weird about this conversation-- you know this. More than anything, in this moment, you wonder what it would sound like from the outside. Would it appear that you and Bellamy were day-late lovers? Like two people who shared a past, shared a life, and somehow fell apart? Like you and Lexa would sound in a couple of years?

“So why don’t we start over?” he asks you, leaning in to rest his elbows on his knees. “Why don’t you let me know what’s going on with you and the commander?”

Sighing deeply, for a brief moment you forget how to control it as the tears fall down your face. “I don’t know,” you almost gasp, attempting to take air past the emotions that are flooding out of your mouth. “I just feel….”

But before you can even finish your thought, much like the feeling of not being able to sneeze or the incompletion of a cough in your chest, your words are halted by the vibrating and beeping of the device on the table-- the warning of another case requiring your care.

“Get it,” Bellamy nods, the warm smile that you had grown accustomed to over the past few years ushering your hands forward as his finds your shoulder, pushing off of you to stand. “We’ll continue this conversation after you’re done saving lives.”

As you grab the pager, the numbers across the screen send your heart six feet into the ground-- as they always do. Code Pink-- child cardiac emergency.  “Every goddamned time,” you sign as you pocket the device, grabbing your coat from the back of your chair and heading in the direction opposite of Bellamy before you stop, turning quickly on your heels. “Blake,” you shout down the hall to your friend who turns to face you. “Would you like to get a drink with me tonight after our shift?”

The half smile that’s conspiring across his lips is visible to you, even with the hallway of space between you two. “Are you flirting with me, Nurse Griffin?” he asks, his hands resting on his hips, thumbs laced into his belt loops.

“Only if you’re flirting back, Blake,” you laugh, that night in the parking lot where Bellamy Blake began laying the foundations of your friendship surging back to your brain. It had been a long time since you thought of that night. It had been a long time since you thought of that entire period in your life, but one thing was for sure-- Bellamy Blake had been constant for you and it was time that you stepped up to that plate.

“You’re not my type,” he continues the conversation as if it was over four years earlier, turning on the toes of his boot before continuing down the hall away from you. “But I’ll see you tonight,” you hear his say before the door at the end of the hallway opens and closes behind him.

With yet another small penciled across your face, you turn quickly, bolting down the hallway towards your case. No matter how the rest of the day went, today would be better.

Today had to be better.

\---

**BELLAMY**

While making your way through the small crowd, you take a deep breath, silencing the chaos in your chest that’s beginning to choke you from the inside out. Things have been harder to manage recently-- especially since you stopped going to therapy.

It was probably not your best move and probably not the most thought out decision that you’ve ever made but you were running short on hours in your days and, if you were going to be honest with yourself, you were running short on energy to care.

“Here you are, my lady,” you smile, placing the drinks down on the small, round table in front of Clarke while she turns her head back to you after scanning the crowd around you. “The tender had no clue what that thing was so you got a SkyLab. Get used to it,” you say with another smile, lifting your rum and coke to your lips.

She smiles back to you, taking the glass from the condensation ring that it had already begun forming, stirring the straw before taking some of it up, nodding as she lowers the glass back to the table.

For everything that’s changed over the last couple of years, she’s still pretty much the same, fascinating creature….

Probably always will be.

“Is this too much?” she asks of you, motioning to the room around your table. For a moment, you want to scream yes. For a moment, you want to beg her to leave with you. For a moment, you want to break down and explain to her that the crowd is terrifying and that the noise level is overwhelming and that you’ve become numb in your inability to process so many stimuli. For a moment, you want to say yes, but you don’t. Instead, you shake your head, downing your drink quickly and motioning to the server passing by for another. She responds with a nod, her smile glistening towards you as she turns away. “You sure?” your blonde friend asks, her head dropping and eyes shining through her hair-- her doubt bleeding through.

“I’ve got this,” you lie, wondering if you’re trying to convince yourself or Clarke more. “In any instance, this session is about you… not me.” She laughs, her straw finding her lips again before she even exhales to begin speaking.

“Don’t make this sound like therapy…”

“Don’t make this therapy.” The laugh that’s shared between you two in that moment felt like home. It was either the liquor or the presence of your friend (maybe both), but the cold chill that had been building in your chest since she parked her car outside of the bar was suddenly beginning to melt away, slowly seeping down your arms and out of your body. “So, what’s going on?”

You instantly regret handing the waitress your card when she brings you your second drink, the smell of the rum way more potent than the first. “It’s on the tab,” she says, lingering a bit longer than necessary after placing the drink before you, her hand on the table top.

Once she leaves, the wicked smile across Clarke’s face disappears as she exhales slowly, blowing the grin into the atmosphere with the air escaping her lungs. “Have you ever read anything that just sticks with you?” she asks, a snort following quickly behind her words. “Of course you have… that’s all that you ever do.” You laugh back, nodding while bringing the super stout drink to your lips. With a small cringe, you take down your first bit, realizing this was probably going to be your last drink of the night. “That’s happened,” Clarke adds, taking some more of her slime green concoction. “I read that sometimes the worst part of a relationship isn’t the arguments or anything like that… It’s where the quirky habits that your partner once found cute and funny suddenly become obnoxious and annoying…” She sighs again, the tremble in her hand becoming more obvious while she swallows back what you can only anticipate to be tears. “What if Lexa’s getting bored with me?” The snort that flees from your mouth is met with much protest as Clarke basically shouts across the small round table at you. “I’m serious! Think about it!”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you lean back in your seat, sighing slowly as you wait for her to finish. “You have to be fucking with me right now Clarke,” you smile, shaking your head. “There’s not one single person on earth less bored than Lexa. Have you seen the way that she looks at you?”

The blonde jumps at your question, pointing an accusing finger to your face. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about… Like how I leave the keys in the door after unlocking it?” You nod, remembering exactly what she’s talking about. “Lexa used to laugh and make jokes but now she just takes the keys out and tosses them onto the table.” Your head drops in order to hide the chuckle that’s making its way from your body despite your best protests. “And the way I burn literally everything I cook? Instead of joking with me and telling me that it’s alright, she just says shit like ‘i’ve got it’ and ‘i’ll fix it’. There’s nothing anymore…”

With a laugh still bubbling through your voice, your eyes catch hers, the sadness stealing all joy from inside of you. “You’re actually worried about this?” you ask her, the blonde nodding in return while biting her lower lip. “So this is like a real thing?” You straighten up, not even watching her nod that you can feel.  Pursing your lips for a bit longer than normal, you continue to reel through your database of sympathetic words, not really knowing how to reply to this situation. Lifting your hands to cover your mouth while you continue to think, you almost miss the waitress dropping off another set of drinks for you two. Finally, you lower your hands to your chin to support you head, poking Clarke with one single finger before returning the hand to your face. “You blame her for doing exactly as you asked,” you tell her, proud of your final conclusion. The confusion written across her face warrants explanation and with a sigh, you begin. “Even though you made her, you still blame her for pulling that plug and not trying harder to keep you alive.”

“How in the hell….”

“No,” you interrupt her, a finger lifted into the air that stops her in her tracks. “Hear me out, okay?” She nods, her hand covering her mouth as if the words would explode out if she didn’t hold them back. “You didn’t give that woman an option and yet you’re still holding it over her head that you think she gave up…”

“You’re full of shit,” she interrupts you again, the groan and toss of your hands into the air evident of your frustration.

“Fine, don’t believe me if you don’t want to, but let me tell you something.” A small grumble comes from Clarke as she lowers her head into her hands, turning a side eye to you as you speak. “You know that that woman blamed herself. You know she still to this day thinks that she made the wrong call. You know that she thinks she could have done something more. But you also know that there was literally nothing that she could have done differently. This was on you.” Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you bite your upper lip, resisting the temptation to rip into Clarke even more.

“Look,” you begin again, your hand finding Clarke’s elbow. “I’m not saying that she was right or that you’re wrong. I mean, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it a million times to you goddamn it… Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two very different things. You weren’t there.” You’re practically shouting, the pent up rage venting into the air around you as you point at Clarke, accusing her of everything that you know to be true. “You don’t know what it was like just trying to get by Clarke. You don’t know what it was like not knowing if you were going to wake up or not. You don’t know how much it hurt seeing you in that room. You don’t know what that phone call was like…” Without taking a breath, you continue, your finger withdrawing and attacking with each new sentence. “So until you know what that’s like, you have no room to begin blaming anyone for what we did to get by. You may as well have held her hand and forced her to sign that paper and now she’s still beating herself up over it.”

Lifting yourself from your chair, you shake out your hair, running a hand through it and across your jaw quickly before that same hand grabs your drink, downing it in one fell swoop so you can’t taste the liquor. “Look,” you practically whisper, leaning into Clarke from across the table. “I understand if you’re mad at me right now… I’d be mad at me too, but don’t take this out on her. You need to talk to her about this. She shouldered that on her own.”

Where did all of this come from? When did you become so angry?

Turning against Clarke, you stumble slightly towards the door, unlocking your phone and shooting Harper a quick S.O.S. message before you feel arms around your waist, pulling you back quickly.

“You win,” Clarke mumbles into your shoulder from behind, tightening her grip around your waist. “Am I a terrible person?”

Turning into her, you wrap your arms around your friend’s shoulders, pulling her into your chest. As she nuzzles her nose into your neck, you feel her breathing soften on your skin, a small smile spreading across your lips as her shoulders drop in relaxation. “No Clarke. You’re just kind of an asshole.”

She laughs with you, shoving you away by your torso before grabbing your sweater, pulling you in and lifting onto her toes to kiss your cheek. “Go get your card so we can leave,” she says, pushing you towards the bar as she begins to walk towards the door.

For a brief moment, you watch her as she sways slightly, balancing herself on a chair and then continuing on her way. She may be a hot mess sometimes, but every day is getting a little closer to where you were before it all came crashing down. Every day she’s becoming a little more normal.

A little more like Clarke.

\---

**LEXA**

Needless to say, when Clarke came in mildly intoxicated, you weren’t happy. Sure, she drove while buzzed frequently, and sure the bar was only 5 minutes from the hospital and a grand total of 17 minutes from your house, but that didn’t matter to you… not after everything.

But rather than fight it, you turned the music up and let the bass drown out her grumbles and free your brain from the angst…

That was until she laid down…

Pushing herself as far away as possible from you, you shuffle your legs, unable to even find comfort outside of her.

When did it become so hard to breathe on your own?

When did you become so distant?

When did you do this?

“I’ve you’ve got something to say,” you begin with a sigh, the tears already starting down your face and falling onto the sheets below, “just do it.” Your knuckles tighten around the ball of blankets beside your head as you bite hard onto your cheek, the taste of blood on your tongue while you listen to Clarke’s shuffles.

“Did you want me to die?” the sadness fills the room as a chill rushes up your body, lifting your shoulders from the bed without you even trying. While sitting up-right, you turn to face your wife, the ring on your finger never feeling any more heavier than it does now.

“What?” you ask her, the corners of your nose scrunches as your eyes squint-- as if that would even help. You’re trying to see her words, but nothing is materializing in the darkness of the room around you.

Fuck, you can’t even see her. She’s just a mass of blankets with some blonde poking from the top refusing to turn your direction.

“I mean…” the exhales and stumbles through her words give away that this impromptu conversation was anything but staged. She’s lost-- and so are you. “I just… Can I be honest with you?” As she asks her question, the blonde sits up to join you, light dancing across the soft face that refuses to make eye contact as the sounds of cars passing accompany her broken trembles. Through the darkness you can make out the shimmer of tear lines racing down her cheeks, illuminating more than they should in this hour.

You’ve done this to her.

You’ve hurt her.

You’ve wielded the iron fist of conversation that has led to this point.

You’re the one with blood on your hands.

The silence in between songs is almost enough to bury you 6-feet under… that is until the song change does it for you. When that voice that you’ve avoided for almost a year now sings out, a new tremble fills your body and a new breed of darkness begins approaching, moving faster, taking over quicker than ever before. Your hands begin to shake as you clench and release your fists, trying to find what’s real.

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me_

You want to reach for the remote to shift the song, but you can’t move. You’re frozen in time, stuck between listening to the words that have haunted literally every nightmare you’ve had since your phone rang at 3:47AM and hearing the sounds of your own scattered breaths. Clarke sniffs deep, the reverberations of her tears echoing through the room around you.

_'Cause I'm a little unsteady_

“Sometimes I wonder…” And that’s how it began… the worst conversation that you could have imagined was happening and you couldn’t even gather the air in your lungs enough to protest. “I mean, did you even try to argue it?” You’re only hearing every fourth or so phrase that comes out of her mouth. Honestly, the pounding of your own heart is overwhelming her voice, the lyrics to the song offering the only release from the beating in your chest and ears. “And maybe this is my fault…”

_A little unsteady_

“No,” you finally gather enough oxygen to protest, interrupting her as she shudders back more tears. “No… This is…”

_Mama, come here, Approach, appear_

The phrase won’t come. The words _This is my fault_ are stuck to the back of your throat as you choke, gagging on your own inability to speak. It’s like the darkness already flooded above your head, drowning you in your own depression…

_Daddy, I'm alone. 'Cause this house don't feel like home_

A feeling that you’ve fought off for a while now…

_If you love me, don't let go_

But you’ve finally grown too weary to fight…

_If you love me, don't let go_

You were doing so much better…

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me_

But at the same time…

_'Cause I'm a little unsteady_

You weren’t…

_A little unsteady_

“Jesus…” you whimper through the pain that’s rising through your chest. It burns, beginning in the center of your body, radiating to your fingertips. Clenching your fists around the blankets again, you shake your head, blinking away the tears that were sitting in the corner of your eyes. “You don’t understand how hard it was… How hard everything is.”

_Mother, I know that you're tired of being alone_

The tense change in your words shocks even you when the truth comes out and Clarke’s hand finds yours in the darkness. “Then tell me, please,” she begs of you, her thumb stroking circles on the top of your skin before you roll it over, wrapping your fingers around hers. It’s not much, but the feeling of her skin against yours is enough to allow you to surface, taking your first solid breath in minutes. “Tell me what’s in your head so I can know.”

_Dad, I know you're trying to fight when you feel like flying_

“I think I’m still fucked up,” you whimper as your wife moves her body closer to yours, wrapping her arms around your torso, arms and all. You can’t move. Instead you’re frozen with the feeling of her heartbeat in her chest against your shoulder. “I mean, I still feel like it’s all my fault?”

_But if you love me, don't let go_

“What is?” she asks, turning her head to the side. You wish that you could see her face right now. Even with the tear-streaked lines, you bet her face is relaxed, questioning, welcoming.

_If you love me, don't let go_

“Everything,” the confession slips, giving away the truth. “Lincoln’s stress. Bellamy’s anxiety. This tension. Tris’ headaches. Every argument. Pulling the plug. Your coma. The wreck. The break-up. My parents. Literally everything that has happened in my life could have been avoided if only I tried a little harder.”

\---

**HARPER**

Waking up in the middle of the night to Bellamy’s rantings in his sleep had become more normal than not. In fact, a solid night of straight-thru sleep was a foreign concept by this time and silence was more deafening than anything. Honestly, it was kind of comforting-- hearing the voices and sounds that lullabied him to sleep every night…

Except for the nightmares.

The nightmares were the exception to this rule. Normal nights included him conversing with the ghosts of his past; laughing with old comrades and making plans for the following days that would never come. On more than one occasion you heard the name Johnathan Metcalf and have come to know this man intimately. Apparently, this ghost in Bellamy’s head was young-- no older than 21 since your boyfriend has made fun of him on multiple occasions for not being old enough to drink. He’s a blonde man with green eyes that Bellamy says often makes him look like he’s “been rolling on the beans”.

When Bellamy speaks of Metcalf, it’s different. It’s not like when he speaks to you or your family. When Bellamy speaks in his dreams, he’s a different person… more aggressive… less restrained… He doesn’t appear to think before the words come from his mouth. He’s uninhibited and unafraid of offending the ghosts as he laughs about their sisters and makes jokes about their skills in bed. Sleeping Bellamy is exactly like every war movie that you’ve ever seen….

And something about this terrifies you…

Because somewhere, deep inside of him, Sleeping Bellamy is Awake Bellamy.

But waking up in the middle of the night to Bellamy’s rantings in his sleep had become more normal than not, so when you awoke to the shouts of a trembling, sweating boyfriend sitting upright in the bed, hands holding tight to his curls, you weren’t necessarily surprised…

Not until he turned to you when you went to speak.

The words of comfort hadn’t even exited your mouth and your hand had yet to find his knee when he turned to you, eyes void and expression froze in what you could only interpret as absolute fear. As his hand pushed your face to the bed, covering your lips with trembling fingers, he shushed you, the other hand covering his own lips with one finger.

“Shhhh,” he pushed the air through his lips for what felt like an eternity as he scanned the room.

This wasn’t the first episode that he had-- the patches in the drywall of your house that he and Lexa spent hours babyproofing due to his sleepwalking was indicative of this. As you lay still in the bed, you just remind yourself, this will pass.

It always does.

“If you’re too fucking loud, the goddamned trench monkeys will be in here on top of us in a heartbeat. Jesus Christ, what are you some sort of fucking Bolo?” The grip of his fingers on your cheekbones tightens slightly as he jerks his head to the left, pulling you with him. “See? They’re getting closer.”

He continues to stare into the darkness, releasing your face before he slides his feet under him, sitting on his knees on the bed. Running a hand over his face, he grumbles something about military code with his facial hair “as per article FM 3-21.5” before turning quickly to face the door. “Did you hear that?” he whispers into the air.

You’re honestly afraid to move. He hasn’t had an episode this bad in months now, and hasn’t actually interacted with you during one since Clarke’s coma.

The therapists told you that everything should be fine--

That they should pass in minutes…

But they also gave you warnings about proximity and touch, explaining that putting hands on Bellamy during an episode would only make it worse…

But what they never told you was what to do if he touched you…

And when your boyfriend-- or whatever incoherent, confused version of your boyfriend that was at play here turned to you, it became more apparent that you should have asked the question that lingered on the tip of your tongue during your last day at therapy.

“Let’s go Buddy Fucker,” he growls at you, pulling you to your feet with him as he slides off of the bed, a small chuckle accompanying his flailing feet. “I can’t believe I’m saving your sorry fucking ass again after the shit you pulled last week.” Following along silently, you listen to the aggression as it rolls almost too easily from his tongue. “You broke-dick pieces of shit left us to clean up the mess and the goddamned butter bars came down hard. You’re lucky I love you, Metcalf, you mother fucker.”

Walking you to the door of the bedroom, he finally releases the death grip that he held on your arm, the stencil of his fingers still burning on your skin. You tremble slightly as he leans in, breathing deeply into your ear and whispers, “by the way, I hear there’s a promotion coming your way if you keep it up.” You can feel the grin spread across his cheeks and it sends a shiver up your spine.

Honestly, this is what horror films were made of-- the feeling in the pit of your stomach as he straightened your shirt on your shoulders, asking you “when was the last time you had this shit pressed?” and “Jesus Christ, Johnny, how the fuck did you ever pass inspection?” With a hand patting your cheek harder than necessary, he offers you, or rather Johnathan Metcalf, reassurance before taking that same hand and shoving you into the wall by your shoulder. Even with the pain that’s radiating from your arm, you can still feel the burn on the side of your face, his finger marks matching those on your right arm.

The impact with the plaster behind you causes the air in your lungs to flee your body, a gasp escaping your mouth before you cough to regain yourself, your hands finding their way to Bellamy’s bulging forearms.

“Bellamy!” you shout at him with what little air you were able to recover, his eyes still focused down the hallway. “You’re hurting me.” His one hand is still pressed into your shoulder, holding you tight against the wall as he turns his face back to you, eyes just as empty as before. “Let go, please.”

“Fucking shit bird. Do you understand what you did? This was supposed to be fucking easy!” He’s shouting now and as you tremble under the magnitude of his voice, you can feel the muscles in his arm tense even more. “Do you see what has fucking happened?”

“Bellamy, it’s me,” you plead, your hands moving from his arms to the sides of his face. Your pleading is falling on deaf ears as he glances you one over quickly, his grip on your shoulder loosening just slightly.

When his hand falls to his side, you notice your opening and decide to take it. Shoving him away with as big of a push as you could muster, your knuckles white and fingernails digging into your palms, you bolt down the hallway, your feet carrying you into the bathroom and your fingers locking the door before your brain catches up to your body. “Fuck… fuck… fuck…” you continually whisper, back against the door and body sliding to the cold tile below. “Jesus… fuck…”

_What do I do?_

_Did I hit him?_

You can hear the slight pounding of his feet on the carpet, pacing back and forth down the hallway through the door that your head is resting against. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he grumbles, a small thrashing against the wall. “It was supposed to be a simple pass through Metcalf!” The pacing continues as another smashing sound accompanies his words, this time closer to you than before. “We were just passing through…”

Within minutes, however, just as anticipated, the sounds of the monster inside of him pacing and the random crashing and hammerings cease, but even still then, you can’t bring yourself to open the door.

Even when the sun begins to peak over the ledge of the small window in your bathroom, you can’t bring your aching fingers to find the door knob.

As your heavy eyes begin to fall and your forehead leans against your curled up knees, a small tap on the door startles you into waking again, stirring you from whatever half-sleep you almost achieved.

“Harper?” the small, broken voice of your boyfriend whispers to you, sounding more like home than the night before. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, the sadness evident as it bounces through the tile bathroom, reverberating again as he repeats the words with more emphasis. “I’m sorry.”

\---

**CLARKE**

Wrapping your arms around your wife, you feel the tremble slowly exit her body in a rhythm with probably the saddest feeling song that you’ve ever heard from her speakers.. “I just… I feel it everywhere. It’s always there.” She continues to tell you of her darkness while you tighten your arms around her, placing your forehead on her shoulder. “It’s like we’re old friends who occasionally meet in passing but never linger.”

She chews on her lower lip when you look back to her, the light from the rising sun outside dancing across her cheekbones, illuminating the stars on her face that you’ve failed to see recently. Her brown eyes awash with gold and greens that balance into the deep mahogany, contrasting against the golden light peeking in through the blinds jolt back and forth behind her heavy eyelids-- doing anything they can to avoid looking at you.

“I’m sorry,” you inhale, your forehead finding her shoulder again, head rolling back and forth on that axis as you shake it. “I never meant to start a war….” You can feel her swallow deeply, pushing words back and forth through her as she thinks.

She always thinks…

Unlike you…

Or maybe… just like you.

“You know,” she begins, lowering her eyes to meet yours. “This song sang me through the drive to the hospital…” With your eyes still on hers, your hands slide down her arms, your left taking refuge and tracing the single scar in her right hand while your right skates across the scars on her wrist, tracing the direct results of this interaction with darkness that she speaks of.

The song breaks into the chorus, the drum beat keeping a steady rhythm with your heart as it skips through your tears that have begun streaming down your face. “I shouldn’t blame you… I never gave you a choice,” you say before her lips meet your forehead.

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me_

“Taking you off of life-support was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do… Like in the moment that my pen touched that paper, I had to grow up,” she speaks, lips still grazing your skin. “I mean, I had been an adult for years, but it was different. No one’s life was at stake with Lincoln and Tris. They could have survived without me… which is why I was never concerned for them during…” She swallows deeply, obviously pondering her next words closely. “During my depression. Clarke,” she uses her hand to lift your chin, moving your eyes to face hers. “You were dead, but flipping that switch meant losing you forever… I don’t think you understand what that meant for me.”

_'Cause I'm a little unsteady_

You grit your teeth, trying to think of what to say in return. Through all of the words in your head, the only think that you can hear clearly are the words to this stupid fucking song.

_A little unsteady_

“It meant walking out on you for a second time… It meant losing you for the second time… It meant losing you forever,” Lexa continues, blinking away the tears in her own eyes as you’ve given up on yours, allowing them to flow freely and do as they please.

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me_

“I’m sorry,” is all that you can draw, repeating the same words over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

_'Cause I'm a little unsteady_

Locking her fingers into yours, Lexa brings them to her lips, kissing your hand before she rests her forehead on it, trembling out the air that has no doubt been trapped in her lungs while you uttered the same phrase in rhythm with the song. “Would you hate me if I said that I wasn’t ready to have a baby yet?”

_A little unsteady_

The shudder that exits her body while she waits for your response enters yours, flooding your nostrils, throat and lungs with the sadness that carried her voice across the small space between you two. “No,” you can’t help the half-smile that has sketched itself across your lips. Lifting yourself up onto your knees, you throw one leg over her body, straddling her legs and resting your weight into her lap, your arms wrapping themselves around her neck. “I could never hate you.”

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me_

“Don’t make promises that you can’t keep,” Lexa mumbles, her eyes falling to her lap.

'Cause I'm a little unsteady

“Hey,” you reply, nudging her with your nose to draw her eyes back to yours. You can feel them looking past you, even when they’re locked on with yours. You can feel her lack of connection. You can feel her slipping. “We have things to work through… this is true.” She snorts a small laugh, her shoulders bouncing under your elbows. “But we’re going to make it.”

_A little unsteady_

The nod that she gives is the only indication of her understanding and it’s all that you have to go on…

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me_

But for now…

'Cause I'm a little unsteady

It’s enough.

_A little unsteady_

\---

**BELLAMY**

The breathing on the other side of the door is soft and tattered, grasping at whatever she can in order to stay grounded.

And you’ve done this.                                                                     

“I’m sorry,” you say for the third time, laying your forehead on the solid wood between you, listening to the trembles from below. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, Harper,” you begin, placing a single palm on the wood to stabilize yourself.

“You don’t need my forgiveness Bellamy,” she almost whispers, the sound muffled through tears and sharp inhales. “You need help.”

Those words resonate deep within you, outlining your scars and slicing open your chest, leaving your heart open and exposed.

It’s not the first time that you’ve heard them…

But it’s the first time that you’ve heard them in her voice.

“I’ll go back to therapy,” you attempt to reason, offering the only fall back that you can give her.

Honestly, it’s a cop-out, but you don’t have much to offer. You’re not really in a position for bargaining…

Especially since you don’t remember last night.

The only indication that you have of the previous hours is the shattered glass in the kitchen, the holes in the drywall in the hallway, the broken chair in the living room, and the blood that has dried on your knuckles and lower lip. If it wasn’t for these puzzle pieces and waking up in the middle of the hallway, you would have been able to carry on as if last night was normal.

But that wasn’t the case…

And you had nothing but a broken apology and a half-hearted promise to do better.

“Bellamy, I don’t feel safe right now,” she says through the shuffling on the other side. “Please, just leave me alone.”

And with that, you nod, as if she can even see you, pushing yourself from the door and begin making your way down the hallway, tracing the lines in the broken plaster that litters the floor, following an all too familiar path that you have no memory of. Glancing around quickly as you come to the living room, your eyes catch the chair in the corner, the legs snapped in half and scattered through the left half of the room. It’s like a terribly decorated stage to a play about a petty larceny charge, but it’s yours…

It’s your fault.

Falling onto the couch, you take your head in your hands, running your nails up and down your scalp as your eyes focus in on the floor. The blood that has crusted on the corner of your lip peels away as you poke at the swelling with your tongue.

Did she hit you?

You can’t blame her if she did…

The silence in the room is almost deafening and it’s drowning you slowly. Reaching for the remote on the table in front of you, you switch over to the xbox, watching the green ring illuminate on the device before the screen of the television turns to white. Flipping the screens to the right, you get to the music library, clicking play on the shuffled playlist and instantly regretting it.

In fact, you regret all of it as the all too familiar sound of Abbey Gundersen’s perfect violin skills and her brother’s rhythmic guitar complimenting the melody.

_I've got a lot of loose ends. I've done some damage. I've cut the rope so it frayed._

It meant something different before, not anything more or less. It was just different, but that doesn’t mean that it was wrong. In fact, in this moment, the lyrics resonated in a way that you would have never thought possible. Last time it was 14 days that you spent in the darkness, finding this song to take hold of your chest and rip out your emotions. This time it was your entire life.

_I've got a lot of good friends keeping me distracted, keeping my sanity safe._

Those same friends that you had spent all those days with, that same woman that you held during that dark time, all of them were still here… and yet… you weren’t. When they needed you the most… when Lincoln needed you the most… When your sister needed you the most… when Clarke and Lexa and Harper and Maya and Monty and Jasper and Monroe all needed you the most, you were nowhere to be found.

_Here, I stand on the edge of the ledges I've made, looking for a steady hand._

And now you found yourself here, on the edge of eternity, tracing the line of the ledge with your toes, watching as the rocks under your feet fall into the abyss. And now you find yourself here, alone in a living room that you and Harper built together after you single handedly tore it down. And now you find yourself here, looking for a steady hand…

_Here, I stand in the land of the rocks in the valley, trying to be a better man._

And now you find yourself here, again, watching, waiting, and promising so much more…

_And I drink a little too much. It makes me nervous. I've got my grandfather's blood._

The door to the bathroom crack open, closing again quickly as the sound of Harper’s small body gliding down the carpeted hallway echoes into the living room. But you can’t bring yourself to move. You can’t raise your head to face her, even when she sits beside you… even when she places a hand on your knee.

_And I take a little too much without giving back. If blessed are the meek then I'm cursed._

The distance between your bodies is almost as loud as the music coming from the speakers, and yet you can still hear her staggered breathing, light through her nostrils as she looks to you, waiting for your reaction.

_Here, I stand on the edge of the ledges I've made, looking for a steady hand._

But you don’t have one.

_Here, I stand in the land of the rocks in the valley, trying to be a better man for you._

You don’t have anything to offer her.

_I want to learn how to love- Not just the feeling… bear all the consequences._

“I don’t blame you,” she finally speaks, her fingers tightening on your sweat pant covered knee. Even through the fabric you can feel the warmth of her fingers that are tracing circles on your leg. “I’ve never blamed you.”

_And I want to learn how to love and give it all back and be forgiven for all I've done._

“I’m sorry for the chair,” you mumble through your swollen lip, not even knowing if your comment was a joke or not. You’re unconvinced of all of the words that are fighting for dominance in your brain and honestly, if you never spoke again, in this moment, you’d be fine with that.

_Here, I stand on the edge of the ledges I've made, looking for a steady hand._

“It’s alright,” she laughs, sliding closer to you and placing a hand on your cheek. She lifts your face to hers, kissing your forehead before speaking again. “I never liked it anyway.” The silence that you’re feeding her obviously gives it away-- the jokes aren’t working anymore. The dark is just too heavy. “Hey,” she says, her thumb stroking your cheek. You turn your head slightly into her hand, allowing her to hold your face entirely. “Look, we can get through this.” Her positivity is falling on deaf ears and your eyes close against her, drowning out the visual stimuli of your failure. Maybe if you can’t see it, it will go away. “We’re just starting over, okay?”

_Here, I stand in the land of the rocks in the valley, trying to be a better man for you._

Biting your lower lip, you can’t hold back the cringe as the pain shoots through your jaw, reminding you of the swelling that you awoke with. Harper pulls you in close, kissing your lip gently before wrapping her arms around you and pulling your head into her shoulder. As you bury your face into the fabric holding tight to her arms, you can’t help the thoughts from flooding into the front of your brain.

How much longer until she’s over this?

How much longer until she leaves?

How much longer do you have to try to be a better man?

\---

**CLARKE**

Adrien always knew the right words to say. If there was one thing that you remembered from before the coma, it was that Adrien was already right… but this time… this time he out did himself…

And Lexa was displeased.

“Wait a minute,” her voice cuts through the therapist’s office, ringing deeply in the silence that surround her, broken only by the slight ticking of the clock on the desk. “I’m feeling victimized because Clarke blames me for everything? No offense buddy, but we’ve had this conversation.”

When your wife stands to leave, offering you a hand, your eyes shift back to Adrien, a flash of recognition spreading across his eyes. “Clarke?” he offers, opening the door for the conversation that today was supposed to be about.

“Clarke, let’s go. I’m over this.”

And before you can say words-- before you can even open your mouth to protest, your head is shaking and your eyes are closing to hold back the tears that you already feel burning in the pits behind your eyelids. “I can’t,” you breathe in shallow deeps, puffing out quickly as your face falls into the palms of your hands. “You never came back,” the root of the problem exits your mouth, taking even Adrien by surprise.

As Lexa finds her seat again, you hear one massive sigh from both of them, the blanket filling the room weighing heavy on your shoulders. You had been thinking about it, but it wasn’t a big deal-- after all, the two of you had already started that question weeks before on that one night that you sat on the bed until the sun came up, welcoming a new day as you managed to stay in the old one, conversations lingering on the tips of your tongue that remained unspoken.

“What?” she questions softly, leaning forward to close the gap between you two. With her elbows on her knees, her right hand finds your left, holding it as she takes a single deep breath. “What do you mean?”

Adrien’s voice rings in before you can speak, giving you enough time to contemplate your words again. “Yeah Clarke, what’s on your mind?” he asks, his body leaning into you as well. All of their eyes are on you and the tremble that spreads from your chest and through your arms brings Lexa’s eyes up to meet yours.

“When I left, you didn’t try to reach anyone…”

This was not where this conversation was supposed to go.

In fact, there a specific dialogue for this exchange that had been agreed upon with you and Adrien in last week’s session…

And this was not it.

“Everyone else called… your brother… Bellamy… Octavia… your sister… Fuck, Raven came across the country…” You sniff back the tears, trying to regain yourself as your eyes fall to your bag on the floor-- that stupid fucking box inside a reminder of the conversation that you were supposed to be having but weren’t. “But you…. You never came for me.”

Your wife’s breathing separates as her hand withdraws, crossing over her chest and finally making its claim in front of her mouth, her arms crossed into a cocoon of safety. “I…. I’m sorry?” she asks, the question in her tone drowning out the words. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You can’t,” you almost interrupt her, your head shaking back and forth as your hair finds its way out from behind your ears. “You can’t do anything now… but why didn’t you try?”

She pauses for a moment and the silence is almost unbearable. The dinging of the clock alerts you to the end of your session, Adrien’s hand silencing the device before apologizing. “Go one… We’ll ignore this for now,” he says with a small laugh, leaning back in his chair again.

The Hispanic man smiles awkwardly and sympathetically at you as his arms cross over his chest. He’s honestly the best therapist that you’ve ever seen, and if nothing else, the emotion in his eyes proves this.

“I didn’t know how,” Lexa finally admits, her body slouching down into her chair as the words meet your ears. “It’s not that I didn’t want you… because I’ve always wanted you. Clarke, you’re my bridge…” She glances between you and Adrien for a moment, obviously searching for any glint of recognition but finding none. “You know when you’re driving and it’s raining and the sound of the rain on your windshield is drowning out everything? Well, when you drive under a bridge, the chaos all stops for a brief moment… Clarke, you’re my bridge… you’re the silence in the chaos…”

You take a deep breath in when she finishes, watching the way that her shoulders shake as she speaks. There’s emotion in her words that you don’t remember seeing ever before. There’s sadness in her eyes that only surface when you speak of her past mistakes. There’s something about the vulnerability that she’s offering that stills the stirrings in your own chest. “I want someone to tell me that they won’t leave. That I’m worth more than being left behind,” you mumble, your fingers wringing circles in your lap.

And then her voice speaks again, softening the stiffness that had begun to find its way into your neck and shoulders. “Margaret Stohl wrote the words in her text called Beautiful Chaos that I think of every time that I even look at you. She said, ‘When I first met you, that’s what I remember. I looked up at the sky and thought; I’m going to love this person because even the sky looks different.’” She chokes momentarily before leaning in one more time, taking your hands in hers. “Clarke, I wanted to come back… I wanted the sky to be different again… I never meant to make you bleed… I love you.”

The words are on the tip of your tongue, all three of them in reply to her, but instead, you choose three different ones-- not any less true. “I love you,” you say, tightening your fingers around hers. The tears racing down your cheeks offer no resistance as the words find their way out of your throat and into the air around you, filling the silence and awkwardness with a whole different vibe. “I’m pregnant,” you announce, Adrian’s shoulders finally relaxing.

Lexa’s, on the other hand, tense up in response to your comment, her face flooding with emotion after emotion, finally settling into one of shock. “But we stopped treatment last month,” she attempts to reason, the logic falling from her lips as her hands raise to meet them, holding back whatever else was in her mind.

“Apparently it took,” you shrug, reaching into your bag and pulling the box, holding up the positive test inside.

For a second, you regret your reveal. Honestly, you could have taken care of this on your own. Honestly, you didn’t need to involve her. Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered…But you did and now, the silence that lingered between you two made you wonder if you were better off on your own.

“We can do this,” she finally speaks, a small smile peeking through her lips that twist and tangle at the thoughts surrounding her. Her face finally rests at the smile, spreading deeper. “I want this to work.”

The smile is contagious, spreading across your lips as you suddenly forget why you were even upset. Something about the confidence in her words and the look in her eye makes you at ease with the knowledge that this is now inevitable.

This is it. This is what you wanted. It may not be pretty and you may not have it all figured out yet, but this is what you wanted…

Both of you.


	7. JUNE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, sorry for the delay again but like has gotten hectic again... With another car wreck and 2 new tournaments and a demo team performance and getting ready for black belt testing, life just exploded on me and I couldn't find time to finish this chapter... so accept this 10,431 word apology.   
> as always:   
> CHECK OUT THE SOUNDTRACK: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4
> 
> ADD ME ON TUMBLR: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

**Lexa**

Watching your brother teach martial arts to the children of his academy used to be the highlight of your day. Ever since he took over, however, things have changed. What used to be a fun, structured environment where the children laughed and joked while they learned the basics of self defense had turned into something much different. Where your brother used to be calm, collected, and light-hearted stood a man who was weighted down by the challenges of day-to-day to life, exhausted with working long hours and providing for his family. The lines across his face and the appearance of facial stubble, accenting the darkening rings that had formed under his eyes were enough to give this away. To add to this, another nail in the proverbial coffin, was the way that his feeble shoulders dropped when he stepped off of the mat and retreated into the office, disappearing past you without second glance.

Lincoln was exhausted and there was nothing that you could do to stop it.

In fact, you were probably adding to it…

Especially with the conversation that you were about to have with him..

“What’s up sis?” your younger brother asks, his white uniform hanging off of his shoulders looser than the months before as he pulls up a chair next to you. You scan the room around, noting all of the new changes to the academy since you visited last. Had it really been long enough for him to change the coffee colored walls to a gunmetal accented with maroon pillars? Had you really been away long enough for him to have installed the five heavy weight bags in the corner where he always said they belonged? Had you really been disconnected long enough to not notice that he had a new scar across his right cheekbone and that he was losing touch with himself slowly but surely?

What the fuck have you been doing?

 Where the fuck have you been?

Shaking yourself from your thoughts, you take a sip of the steaming Kureg-made Chai in your hands, holding tight to the cup with all 10 fingers as you think deeply how to tell him. There were three ways that you and Clarke had discussed for the massive reveal, but none of them seemed fitting for Lincoln. In fact, none of them seemed fitting for you, but this wasn’t exactly about you. It was about all of you…

It takes a village, after all, and if being with your family over the past three years had taught you anything, it was the truth in that statement.

“Well, I’ve got something to show you,” you finally open your mouth, the steam from the Chai inches from your face entering your lungs as you inhale deeply. Lincoln smiles, turning his chair to face you head on, nodding at you to continue.

There’s still something off about the way that his eyes meet yours. It’s not necessarily the way that he’s looking at you—you’ve never been uncomfortable with your brother’s eyes—but more so about the way that he’s not looking at you. His pupils dance through the air around you, watching the subtle movements in your peripheral of students entering and exiting, the sounds of joy and training echoing through the brick walls.

Without any more words, you pull the bag from underneath your chair, placing it in his hands that had been resting in his lap in front of you, watching as his eyes shifted between the seemingly unplanned gift and your unchanging face.

You had practiced this—over and over again. You had thought it would be harder for Clarke to hide the secret, but in fact, it was you who struggled. Clarke was ace at this, a point that worried you slightly if your mind lingered too long into the thoughts of what else she could become an expert at hiding, but you… you were terrible. Between texts where you told the others that you weren’t going out with them because Clarke couldn’t drink- something that Clarke quickly covered for by saying that she was on a new medication for a sinus infection, or the slip ups where you left baby name books in your car when you went to pick up your nephew from Octavia-- you were failing at hiding this. So when Clarke smiled at you this morning, handing you the small, green bag, a sigh of relief escaped your lungs.

“What’s this for?” he asked, a small smile breaking across his cheeks as he began pulling at the tissue paper. His hand withdrew a small can of coffee, followed by a box of tampons in the other. With a confused look in his eyes, he turns to you, holding up both items? “I think you have me confused for someone else, big sis.”

A small chuckle escapes your nervous, trembling lips as you take a breath to speak. “Well, Clarke isn’t going to need these anymore, so we figured you and Octavia could use them.” His expression is unchanged, obviously not catching on. “Keep going,” you urge your younger brother, watching as he places the coffee and tampons on the table beside you. As his hands reach inside the bag again, the largest grin that you’ve seen since the birth of his son broke across Lincoln’s face, a small gasp accompanying his hands as they pull from the bag, t-shirt in hand.

“World’s Okayest Uncle,” he reads from the green shirt, holding it up to his body and turning towards you. Before you know it, your brother has pulled you in, holding tight to your shoulders with the t-shirt sandwiched between you two. “I’m so happy for you,” he’s practically screaming into your ear as you wrap your arms around his torso, hugging the larger man back.

“Yeah?” you ask, a small sigh of relief relaxing your shoulders into his grasp. “I was scared that…”

“No,” he stops you, tightening his grasp again. “I’m excited.”

The delight in his voice gives it away-- the angst that had existed before was no longer a part of the picture.

Your brother was actually happy for you.

\---

**TRIS**

Taking a deep breath, you exhale against the magazine in front of you. “This is bullshit,” you mumble, turning the glossed page as Roma grumbles on the floor below the couch where you’re sitting. Glancing over the top of yet another bridal magazine, you look her over once quickly before she turns to face you, rolling over onto her side.

She had been on her stomach, surrounded by ripped out pages and Sharpie accented papers, Etsy and Pinterest pulled up on the laptop in front of her. A smile cuts across your stone cold face before she turns, the expressions of exhaustion and stress painted clear across her face.

“Why the fuck are we doing this?” you ask, lowering the magazine to your lap when Roma lifts her feet to your lap.

“What do you mean?” she asks, poking your crossed calves with her toes. “Getting married? I thought that was because you loved me?” she laughs, her cold feet plastering themselves to your skin.

“I know that,” you can’t help but laugh back, your tongue poking through the corner of your mouth. “I mean this… this planning… this humoring other people thing?”

Her eyebrows furrow as she folds her hands behind her head, crossing her ankles in your lap. “I don’t know,” she says, your hands finding her feet and massaging them slightly. She squirms under the tickle of your fingertips, causing you to smile. “I mean, I never wanted a wedding anyway…”

“Wait… What?” you ask, the surprise carrying your voice as you toss her feet off of you. Leaning forward in your seat, you toss your legs over the side, your bare feet touching down on the carpet below. “What do you mean?”

“I’m only planning this because you wanted a wedding…”

The silence that lingers between you two is almost hysterical as smiles break over both of your lips. Roma sits up, crawling over to the couch that you’re still sitting on and pushes your shoulders back, making her way into your lap with one leg on each side of yours, holding you into place.

“You don’t even want this, do you?” she asks you, snorting a laugh as she kisses your lips.

“This?” you ask, grasping tightly to her hips, pulling her in tighter as she rolls gently into you. “Yes… I’ve always wanted this!” Smiling against your lips, her teeth bite down on the corner of your mouth, pulling back slightly as the small gasp escapes your lungs into hers. “But a wedding can come or go… As long as I’m with you.”

It’s always been that way with her.

Before her, you had plans.

Before her, she was never a part of them.

Before her, you never wanted any of this.

But since her…

Things had changed.

-

_“So what, you’re just walking out like that?” Roma shouts, the clean, unfolded laundry in her hand finding its way across the room to your face._

_Balling it up in your hands, you begin shouting back, in spite of your promise to yourself that you wouldn’t. “Look,” you begin, the words coming out louder than hers in order to overpower her continual rantings. “I didn’t plan this, okay? It just happened and I really don’t have a choice!”_

_“You always have a choice, Tris. You’ve chosen this entirely!”_

_She’s not wrong. You could have easily told Kansas no. You could have easily found another team. You could have easily changed your plans. But that’s what it all comes down to-- this was your plan…_

_And Roma wasn’t._

_“This is my life,” you explain, the words coming out as more of a mumble than anything else. Watching as Roma continues to fold the laundry, yanking one shirt after the next out of the basket, you unroll the shirt in your hands, folding her high school soccer jersey gently and placing it in the pile of her clothing._

_There had never been a separation before-- not since the two of you moved in together, but there was today-- something of her own creation the moment you told her that you were leaving._

_“And what am I?” she finally asks after the long pause, throwing her hands down to her side. “Do I mean anything to you? Does Ryder mean anything to you?” The German Shepard on the bed lifts his head for a moment before returning to his sleep, deciding that your shouting match wasn’t worth his energy. “Does this life mean anything to you?” As she ushers to the room around you two, her eyes scan the area, forcing you to take it all in as well._

_All the pictures of both of you._

_All of the ticket stubs and memorabilia collected._

_All of your life._

_“Yes, but I don’t know what to do.” Your shouts had turned to grumbles which turned to pleads which have now turned to begs and you begin closing the distance between you two, placing your hands on her arms, stopping her from continuing to fold the clothes in the basket. “I don’t know how to fix this…”_

_You were leaving-- there was no way around this. In fact, you had met with the agent earlier this morning for coffee and to sign the contracts, but it had never crossed your mind what this meant for the other parts of your life-- for Roma._

_“Ask me to come,” she whispers, biting her lower lip and biting back the tears that you can see forming in the pits of her eyes. She brushes the small, brown locks from her eyes and tucks them behind her ears before she lifts her head from the floor, looking you straight in the eyes._

_You’re going to lose her if you don’t._

_But she’s going to lose everything if you do._

_She’ll have nothing in Kansas. She’ll be starting completely over-- and you can’t do that to her…_

_You can’t…_

_“I can’t…” you swallow back your own tears. “I can’t ask that of you…”_

_Releasing her arms, you retreat from the room, more defeated than you’ve felt in a while, listening as she breaks down behind the door that you closed between you two. Taking a seat on the couch, you collapse your head into your hands, watching her feet as they shuffle through the room and out the apartment door into the world outside._

_Ryder, who has apparently decided that it was time to do something productive with himself, surfaces from the room, stretching across the floor before laying his grey and brown body onto the carpet below your feet and resting his head on your toes. The weight of this head is warm on your bare feet as you wiggle your toes to scratch the side of his face._

_“Do you want to come to Kansas?” you ask the dog who doesn’t respond. Instead, he closes his eyes and allows you to continue scratching him with your feet. “I mean, does your mom even want to come to Kansas? Or am I just being a piece of shit?”_

_When the question exits your lips, Ryder lifts his head, his brown eyes staring into yours without question._

_“Yeah, no one asked you, asshole,” you laugh, reaching out a hand which your dog takes, bumping your palm with his forehead. “So it’s settled? Kansas then?”_

-

**_Roma (5:16pm):_ ** _So here’s the deal. I’m all or nothing._

**_Tris (5:18pm):_ ** _what do you mean?_

_You had not heard from her since she stormed from the apartment, leaving you and Ryder almost, surrounded by everything that you had built together. Receiving that text had not necessarily come as a surprise to you, but that didn’t mean that you had any clue what she was even talking about._

_Taking a deep breath, you begin tying your apology, the words flowing while autocorrect battled for dominance with you throughout the text…_

_That was until she beat you to it._

**_Roma (5:22pm):_ ** _stop typing._

**_Roma (5:22pm):_ ** _just listen._

_You do exactly as she asks, backspacing until all of your writing, all of your excuses, disappear. And then you wait, watching as those three little dots tease you in the corner of your screen. The anxiety begins building up in the pit of your stomach. You’ve never been the anxious out-- that was Lexa’s job-- but as you sit on the couch with your dog’s head in your lap, surrounded by the pictures and memories of your daily life, surrounded by Roma, you can’t help the bubbling in your gut that’s spreading into your finger tips and through your legs. The jittery feeling that makes it almost impossible for your to sit still and is urging you to shift your feet in spite of Ryder’s protests and grumbles continues as those dots bounce back and forth appearing and disappearing over and over again until…_

**_Roma (5:28pm):_ ** _So here’s the deal. I’m all or nothing-- I always have been. I’m not in this for the easy. I’m not in this for the temporary. I’m not in this for the one shot- for the hit it and quit it. I’m not in this for the giving up. I’m not in this for the checking out. I’m not in this for the running away when it gets tough. I’m not in this for the good days and the good days only._

_A smile begins to break across your face as the static in your bones begins dissipating, fading from your toes and the tips of your fingers._

**_Roma(5:31pm):_ ** _I’m in this for the long haul. I’m in this for the hard and the forever. I’m in this for the everyday arguments and the fights that turn in to us sleeping in separate rooms and then you coming back to bed in the middle of the night. I’m in this for the screaming matches and the power struggles and the throwing things if we can find no other way to voice our emotions. I’m in this for the staying in and battening down the hatches and the holding down the forts and the taking shelter in each other during the storms. I’m in this for the holding you when you can’ handle your life and you holding me when I want nothing more than for you to let me go. I’m in this for the bad days as well as the good days._

_The warmth of comfort and calming spreads up your arms and legs, reaching your shoulders and knees quickly as you continue reading._

**_Roma (5:36pm):_ ** _and there’s 2 ways that this can play out… either I come home and I’m coming to Kansas with you, or I’m coming to your apartment to clean out my stuff and you won’t be there when I do. Either way, the ball is in your court and the decision is yours._

**_Roma (5:40pm):_ ** _I’ll be there in 20 minutes._

_And 26 minutes later, when you heard the door to the apartment open to an empty living room from the bedroom where you sat, your legs dangling over the side of the bed as your feet barely grazed the carpet, you listened to the soft sigh escape Roma’s lungs, the sadness emanating from each particle of air as it left. You hated to do this, but you needed to know._

_You needed to hear if she meant it or not._

_The sound of her breaking that filled the room grew louder as it approached the doorway until she reached the wooden frame, leaning on it gently to stabilize herself._

_“You’re here?” she breaks as her eyes meet yours, the small smile filling the corners of her lips._

_“I want you to come,” you stay, pushing yourself from the bed and making your way over to her. Wiping your sweating hands on your jeans, you reach your arms out for her, stopping just a fragment of an inch away from her skin._

_“Fact or fiction?” she asks, brushing her hair from her eyes._

_“Fact. You forgive me-- fact or fiction?”_

_Without any other words, she leans into your arms, throwing her hands over your shoulders and pulling you into her by the back of your neck. “Fact,” she whispers into your hair, taking a deep breath to counter the trembling leaving her body._

_“You love me?” you ask her, running your hand through her hair and down her back. “Fact or fiction?”_

_“Fact.”_

_-_

“Then let’s just… not,” she shrugs after pulling away, the smile across her lips copying itself onto yours. “We’re adults.” You snort a laugh. “We’re paying for it.” You nod. “We can make our own decisions.”

Everything she’s saying is true, but it’s impulsive-- what’s she’s implying is totally out of your element.

And for that reason alone, you’re actually considering it.

“What? Just run away and get married?” you ask her, the tips of your thumbs finding their way under the waistband of her shorts. She nods, a small giggle escaping her lungs as she leans her forehead onto yours. “That’s crazy!”

“I know,” Roma bites her lip, chewing on the left side of it before speaking again. “That’s why it’s perfect!”

“And what? Just send out a letter apologizing to everyone after it and cancel the wedding?” the questions continue from your lips in spite of the fact that she’s already sold you on the idea. The sarcasm bleeds through your words as you thumb the skin across her hip bones. She simply nods a reply. “And what of your toaster?” you joke, reminding her of the fancy toaster that she put on the wedding registry despite your protests for days.

She laughs, tossing her head back and challenging your grip holding her close as her body follows slightly, pushing her hips into you more. “Fuck the toaster,” her words echo through the laugh while she leans in to kiss you. “Let’s do it.”

“Okay,” is all you can say with a deep exhale.

“Yeah?” The question in her voice sounds surprise as your agreement-- I mean, you are a planner-- always have been-- always will be. She’s never known you to be impulsive. You’re strategic and mildly predictable.

But this…

This was not.

“Yeah,” you finally agree, taking the sides of her face into your hands. “Let’s do this. Let’s get married.”

\---

**LEXA**

**Tris (8:26pm):** what are you up to tonight?

The text from your sister surprises you while you’re finishing the dishes in your house. Clarke is pulling another late shift at the hospital. Bellamy and Harper are having date night. Lincoln and Octavia are doubt busy with your nephew… and you… you’re all alone in this house blasting the same playlist on repeat that you’ve listened to for the past 5 hours. The house is nearly spotless as Erick Baker’s voice plays from the speakers, singing your dance moves into completion while you type out your message to your little sister.

**Lexa (8:29pm):** nothing, you in town?

Laying your phone down on the table as you pass through the kitchen to the hallway, you’re surprised by the ding that’s almost instant when you walk out of the room. Backtracking your steps, your grab the device, taking it with you while you walk to the living room which has yet to have been swept.

You don’t reach the living room, however. In fact, you stop five steps short of the doorway, frozen in stride with the phone in your hands, text message opened. Bringing the phone closer to your face as if you need the help to see the message clearly, you can’t help but laugh as you’re reading the words of your little sister.

**Tris (8:34pm):** So we’re giving up on wedding planning. Do you and Lincoln want to be our witnesses in a drive through wedding chapel in Wichita?

The joke makes you giggle even more as you type a response, locking the phone and sliding it into your pocket.

**Lexa (8:35pm):** of course sister. Just send me the directions and I’ll leave right now.

Picking up the broom, you begin the final step in the house cleaning, not even bothering to read whatever sarcastic reply your sister has created until the phone vibrates and dings for the second time in your back pocket. Withdrawing the phone, you lean on the broom as you unlock it, seeing the first text from Lincoln before your sister’s.

**Lincoln (8:45pm):** I’ll be at your place at 9:30. I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.

And the panic begins.

Is this real life?

Quickly swiping over, you open the text from your sister, the breath leaving your lungs as you read each word.

**Tris (8:42pm):** Perfect! Lincoln has the address. I’m so excited. Thank you so very much!

“What the fuck? You mumble, the laughter filling the room over the rhythmic sounds of The Weekend. Is this real life? Swiping over again, you hit call on your sister’s name, the ringing quickly being interrupted by her soft voice.

“What’s up?” she asks through the phone, the smile evident through her voice.

“Are we really doing this?” you ask, Shrugging your shoulders as if she’s here in the room with you. “Like, for real?”

You can’t escape the smile that she’s given you when you hear that one single word cross through the wires and into your ear.

“Yes.”

_-_

_You’re not sure what you were expecting to happen, but the anxiety that was coursing through your veins made it impossible for you to focus on anything except for the one phrase that you needed to say… but couldn’t._

_It shouldn’t be this hard._

_She’s just your sister._

_You’ve never been afraid to talk with her about anything…_

_Before now._

_And to make matters worse, she had no clue._

_She wasn’t aware of your agenda._

_She wasn’t aware that there was a reason to this dinner date._

_She had no clue…_

_Even with the tremble in your fingers and the way that you fumble through the menu and avoid eye contact…_

_She had no clue._

_Taking a deep breath, you decide to dive head-first into the conversation._

_It was now or never._

_“So, I’ve been dating someone,” you say with a small snort, wondering if keeping your tone light and happy will keep her light and happy._

_But instead of an invested response or really anything, you receive a simple “cool,” while Tris bites down on the corner of her straw, pulling the paper wrapper from the thin plastic tube with one hand, the other still thumbing through the menu, eyes detached from you. “Do they make you happy?” she continues over the corners of the laminated page filled with taco meals and salsa._

_“Yeah,” you basically mumble, liberating your own straw and placing it in the glass of water before you, balling up the paper wrapper in between your two hands, hoping that the shudders and trembles will be kept at bay with something to occupy yourself._

_This shouldn’t be this hard._

_Your younger sister glances over her menu to you, her eyes meeting yours for a half of a second before they fall to your hands and then back to the pages before you. “Do I know them?” she asks, obviously fishing. She’s taking the bait, but she’s not pulling. She’s never been one to force your hand, but it’s obvious that you’re pushing the matter-- even if you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud._

_“Well, no,” you begin, stumbling over your own tongue which feels like it’s swollen to ten times its original size in your mouth. You’re finding it hard to breathe and the burning on the back of your neck is spreading a sense of heat and warmth through your entire body, making you sweat under your thin, black tank and denim jean. It’s probably 75 degrees in this building and you’re sweating in a tank top and jeans…_

_This shouldn’t be this hard._

_“Okay,” she practically interrupts your stumblings, putting you out of your misery if only for a brief moment. “So what’s their name?” Her menu finds the table in front of her, her thin hands folding over the top of it as her fingers interlock, her eyes lifting to meet you head on._

_She’s waiting for it now._

_It’s now or never._

_Glancing down at your own menu and taking a deep breath, you ball the straw wrapper tightly between your thumb and forefinger of your left hand, exhaling slowly before the words pour from your mouth. “Tris, I’m gay.”_

_The silence that greets you on the other side is grueling for the moment that it exists before your younger sister lets out a small laugh, saying “well, cool.” Without a second thought or a second breath, the question “have you tried the spinach quesadilla here?” follows as she takes the menu in her hand again, skimming the page with one finger._

_Slamming your hands down on the table, you quickly lift one to rub over your face, stroking down over your open jaw. “For fuck’s sake Tristian,” you begin, rubbing your eyes. How was this so easy for her to digest? Why was there absolutely no response? Did she even here you? “I just told you that I fuck girls and you’re going to ask me about a goddamned quesadilla?”_

_You can’t even explain why you’re upset?_

_Did you want her to be mad?_

_Did you want her to hug you and say she was proud of you?_

_Did you want anything in particular?_

_Or did you just want to be visible-- for once?_

_Laughing slightly, your sister places her menu back down on the table, a dance that the two of you have been tangoing to since you walked into La Hacienda over twenty minutes and four waitress rotations ago. “Lexa, I already knew man.” You must be sitting with your mouth wide open because she reaches over, tapping the bottom of your chin and making some comment about catching flies before you try to swallow deeply, the dryness scratching as the air makes its way down the entirety of your throat. “I mean, you’ve kind of always been gay.”_

_She’s still laughing slightly as the smile breaks across your cheeks-- the first genuine smile since you picked up your sister for dinner. One chuckle turns into a small giggle, which then grows into a hearty laugh to join your baby sister, tears streaming down both of your faces. “Fuck off,” you growl at the younger girl, tossing the now condensed wrapper at her face, missing just enough for the paper ball to fly past her face and into the booth behind you._

_It’s moments like that that you remember how good you have it…_

_How perfect your family is-- even if Costia says otherwise._

-

As your brother turns the wheel slightly onto the small gravel road, you can’t help but remember that day at your favorite Mexican restaurant with your younger sister. She never questioned you-- not once. She never abandoned you-- not once. And she never gave up on you-- not one. She was never phased by your sexuality and has been nothing but supportive of you since coming out…

They’ve all been nothing but supportive of you…

And when Lincoln makes the right into the paved parking lot of the drive-thru, shot-gun chapel, you snort a small laugh to yourself, prompting a quick glance and smile from your brother from the side of his eye.

Of course she’s never judged me…. She’s just as gay as I am…

Pulling into the parking spot next to where Roma and Tris were leaning against Roma’s CRV, skinny jeans and plaid shirts in the Kansas heat, you continue to laugh in your head, noting that the three lesbians in the group are all wearing plaid.

Of course we’re a cliché…

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Lincoln laughs as he shifts the car into park, looking over at you as his hand finds the door handle on the other side of his body. A smile forms across both of your lips as you exit the car together. You’re unable to do anything except nod while you make your way to the rear of the car where you’re instantly greeted by your future sister-in-law’s arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, her hair drowning you as she hugs you tightly.

“Thanks for coming,” she whispers to you, your arms finding their way around her small body.

The two of you never really talked much as neither of you were much for words, but every time that Roma’s voice found its way into your head, you heard something unique to only her. Every word that she spoke was uttered with such sincerity that it could bring you to your knees. You’ve never heard a lie come from her and you’ve never heard her say anything bad against anyone-- with the exception of her sarcastic quips under her breath that go almost always unnoticed by everyone-- except you.

It was like a special bond that the two of you had. And you loved it.

You loved her.

The service that followed your small stroll through the parking lot was nothing too exciting. In fact, it was exactly what you would except from a shot-gun wedding at a 24-hour wedding chapel in Wichita, Kansas at 11:30pm, but oddly enough, it was perfect. With the 4 polaroid photos in your hand, you make your way into Waffle House-- the only restaurant open for the next 20 miles-- shuffling between them, laughing at this evening’s adventures.

Shot-gun wedding.

Waffle House reception.

What more could you want from this weird and crazy evening?

“I should probably text Clarke,” you say as you and your family reach the booth, patting down the pockets of your pants for your phone. “Shit, it’s in the car.” The grumble exits your lips as you turn on your heel, glancing back to your brother and sisters. “Be right back, alright?” They all three nod, completely consumed with the pictures on the table, arguing over who has the best smile and whether or not the old man officiating over the wedding was actually gay or not.

While making your way out to the car, you can’t fight back the smile that has been permanently etched onto your lips. This was exactly where you needed to be.

\---

**CLARKE**

**Lexa (11:57pm):** You’re not going to believe what I just did!

Closing the locker in front of you, you smile as your hand swipes your reply, clicking the lock button and shoving the phone into your scrub pants pocket, grabbing your backpack and making your way to the door.

As you reach the blue metal door, it swings wide against you, narrowly missing your body that you swear is already beginning to swell with the life growing inside of you.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry Griffin,” Kane’s sympathetic groan echoes through the room, reverberating off of the metal lockers as it bounces back to you. The exhaustion in his eyes is evident as the darkened rings underneath the black pupils now staring down at you stand strong, guarding his cheek bones as if under attack. “Did I hit you?”

You shake your head, reaching out a single hand to hold his arm. “I’m fine Marcus,” you say, smiling gently as you begin to slide past him and out the door.

“Griffin?” he stops you pulling you back by the dangling strap on your backpack. “You have family nights on Saturdays, correct?” he asks as you turn to face the tired man. While he rubs his eyes, you give him one quick glance over.

Why is your boss asking about your weekly parties?

How did he even know about them?

“Uhh, yeah?” you stumble over your words, losing your train of thought as he looks you in the eyes again. That was one thing about Kane-- he always maintained eye contact, no matter how uncomfortable the conversation was.

“Good… How weird would it be if I came? I mean, would the doctors be uncomfortable?” The words flowed from his mouth as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other in the doorway.

Marcus Kane was uncomfortable…

It was as if hell itself had frozen over and Marcus Kane was actually awkwardly asking if he could come to your house…

“Uhh,” you stammer, not giving an answer either way. There was just something weird about your friends playing drinking games while you and your wife sneak away together or Bellamy and Harper disappear into the guest room while your boss sits on your couch-- sipping his whisky or whatever drink Marcus Kane drinks. He doesn’t seem like a tequila shots and card games kind of man and because of this, you can’t bring yourself to say yes to his question… but you also can’t find a valid reason to say no either.

You’ve never turned anyone away before…

Now is not the time to start.

“You know what,” he begins before you can reply, but you don’t let the man finish. He looks deflated and for the first time ever, he glances away, eyes traveling to the floor.

“No,” you practically shout, taking the sides of his arms in your hands. “The more the merrier!”

And with a quick swallow, the entirety of your decision hits you.

You just invited your boss-- the number 2 neurosurgeon in the United States-- to come drink at your house with all of your friends.

You are so screwed…

But the light that flickers in the exhausted man’s eyes makes it worth it as he glances up at you, taking your elbows his hands. “Thanks,” he smiles, lifting a hand to your shoulder. “You’re looking good these days,” he says with one final smile, disappearing behind the locker room door and leaving you in the hallway alone.

Pulling out your phone, you frown at Lexa’s lack of reply, swiping a quick message before sliding the phone back into your pocket. With a small chuckle and a shake of your head, you pull your backpack higher up on your shoulders and begin your route to your car again, laughing gently the entire way home.

**Clarke (12:18pm):** Yeah?  well you’ll never guess what I just did either…

\---

**OCTAVIA**

The text message updates from your husband were exactly what you needed while you tried to coax your son into sleeping-- even if they were mildly irritating because you weren’t able to take part in the festivities.

It wasn’t fair to blame him-- you knew this-- but there was that part of you that still did. I mean, while he was out taking spur-of-the-moment road trips with his sisters and visiting old friends from high school for hours at a time, you were still at home, bargaining with an infant for minutes of stolen silence.

And as your phone vibrates with another picture from the inside of a wooden, side-of-the-road wedding chapel, it’s as if it set off the alarm. Miles begins screaming, the siren sound echoing though the walls of your living room where you were laying across the couch, your son on your chest and your phone plugged in beside you.

“How can you even hear that?” you beg of the boy, pulling him closer to your neck, holding tightly to the back of his head to stabilize him.

He’s not the easiest child to deal with, but you knew this from the beginning. You heard every horror story from every distant relative when you announced your pregnancy and you knew that neither you nor Lincoln had been easy children.

You were destined for failure from the get-go…

But you were determined otherwise.

“Shhh,” you soothe the finally slowing boy into silence, his hands grasping tightly to your fingers as they dance across his stomach. The blue onsie that Bellamy picked out specifically because it says ‘My uncle is cooler than yours’ fit loosely around your tiny son who had begun looking more and more like his father each day. “You’re almost as loud as your father,” you can’t help but laugh, crossing your ankles as you push yourself up into an upright position, folding your arm under Myles and turning into the groove of the couch.

In recent days, when it’s been just you two alone, you found this position, surrounded by your own pillow fort of sorts as your burry the two of you deep within the grasp of the couch.

It felt safe.

It felt like home.

\---

**LEXA**

Rummaging through the car, you curse silently at the red blinking light, reminding you of the eminent doom of your phone battery. “I know, I know,” you grumble as your hand pulls the glovebox open, continuing the search for a phone charger in Lincoln’s shit show of a car.

And that’s when your fingers find it…

An all too familiar feel in the palm of your hand…

An all too familiar look as it glistens in the shine of the street light…

-

_“Why are we stopping here?” you ask Costia with a slight laugh, the rum still biting down on your tongue as your words slur with the sounds in your brain._

_She slides your jeep into park and quickly shuts off the lights, leaving the engine running as she turns to you, taking the sides of your face in her hands and kissing your lips passionately. You lean into the kiss only to be pushed away by your shoulders, still craving her touch. “I’ve gotta pick up something, okay?” she asks of you, the words sounding less like a question the longer you sit in the silence of the car alone._

_Flipping the radio on, you sway slightly with the music, turning your head to different angles in a frail attempt to focus your eyesight on your small girlfriend in the darkness of the back porch in front of you._

_This wasn’t your first time at this house…_

_This wasn’t your first pit stop with Costia…_

_In spite of her attempts to hide her demons, she had started becoming sloppy-- leaving evidence all around._

_The text messages._

_The phone calls._

_The midnight runs to convenience stores for sodas and Doritos where you conveniently found yourself alone in the store until she stumbled back in from outside moments later, cramming her hands into her pockets._

_She was sloppy…_

_But so were you._

_Tracing your hands across the top of your jeans, you feel the burn of new cuts under your pants legs, savoring the tinge as it shot down your thigh, dancing across your skin. Pushing down a little harder, you bite the corner of your lip, tasting the blood as it pooled around your teeth, feeling the burn deepen on your leg._

_You had time for one more…_

_Reaching quickly into the glovebox of your jeep, you produce the blade that’s resided there for months, surfacing only for you and only in these rare occasions which had slowly become less rare over the last few weeks. Crossing your ankle over your knee, you roll up your pants leg, your skin glistening in the light of the moon through the windshield._

_You had time for one more…_

_Sliding the blade across your skin, you paint a new picture above your ankle, a canvas previously untouched. Taking a deep breath, you allow your eyes to close as you lean forward, caving at your stomach until your head is resting on the dashboard._

_Something about the liquor in your veins made it easier to justify all of this…_

_Easier to justify your parents…_

_Easier to justify your pain…_

_Easier to justify Costia’s addiction…_

_Easier to justify your art work…_

_“Not asleep already, are you?” Costia’s voice interrupts your creation, causing you to fumble to roll your pants down and dispose of the blade quickly on the floor._

_“Not without you,” you choke, covering your steps with a smile and a sway as she reaches into her pocket, pulling a small bag and tossing it into the cup holder._

_For the first time ever, she’s not hiding it from you._

_For the first time ever, you see Costia’s addiction completely._

-

“Hey, you okay out there?” Roma shouts from the door, her body leaning against the glass as her head dangles over the pavement below. Glancing up quickly, you toss the bag back into the glovebox, slamming it shut and stepping out of the car, plastering the best fake smile you can across your lips.

How can you even pretend to not have seen this?

“Well hurry up and get in here so we can eat!” she laughs, holding the door open for you as you pass through. With an arm around your shoulder, your sister-in-law walks you back to the booth, sliding into her seat as you stand, your eyes fixated on Lincoln.

“Everything okay?” he asks, one eyebrow raised. Scooting over to give you more room, his questioning stare continues as you don’t answer.

In fact, you don’t do anything.

You just stand there.

You just stare.

“Lexa?” he asks, reaching out a hand to take yours.

You pull back quickly, your arm retreating to your hips. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you shake your head, the lie etching a fake smile across your lips. Taking your seat quickly, you pull the menu up in front of your face, feeling the vibration of your phone dying inside of your pocket as you try to hide your face. “So how are we celebrating?” you ask, fixing your stare to your sister and her new wife, avoiding Lincoln’s eyes at all cost.

The smile that inches its way onto Tris’ lips as she reaches for Roma’s hand makes you want to forget what you’ve seen.

Even if you can’t…

It makes you want to…

\---

**LINCOLN**

The silence from the beginning of your return trip lingers through the car, choking out every attempt at conversation that you have with Lexa as you turn onto the interstate, increasing your speed to merge into what little traffic was out at 2am. The void continues to suffocate you as you hear every gear change, every crack in the pavement, every breath she takes.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore. “Okay, what do you need to ask me?” you ask, merging lanes to avoid a fast approaching semi on your left. She still shudders every time one passes and you do your best to keep a lane of separation between you two and them, but sometimes they don’t play along.

This is one of those times as Lexa’s shoulders huddle up over her cheeks, her body shaking quickly after it passes as she grips tightly to the seatbelt around her chest. “Why do you think I need to ask you something?” she asks once her panic has passes.

She’s still a nervous wreck and no amount of therapy has seemed to change this.

Sighing deeply, you question to yourself if this anxious state was going to be a forever curse for your sister. Was she destined to live in fear of highway traffic and semi-trucks forever?

“I can hear it in your breathing Lex,” you explain, your eyes glancing over to your sister. She’s focused on the road in front of you, eyes fixated on the area just past the headlights as if she’s waiting for something. “So go ahead, get it out.”

“It’s nothing.”

She’s relentless.

She’s unfaltering.

“Jesus Christ Lexa, when did we start lying to each other?” your head turning away from the road to focus specifically on her until her trembles with anxiety, prompting you to return your focus to the interstate ahead.

“Probably the same time you started doing drugs,” she mumbled, lifting a hand to wipe her face.

Fuck…

Fuck…

Fuck…

Recover…

“What?” you feign laughter, glancing over just in time to catch her wiping the tears from her cheeks. She was never one for crying, but if the past few years had taught you anything, Lexa’s emotions were complicated and uncontrollable-- a fact that she despised more than anything. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Shifting your gaze quickly, you catch a glimmer in the rearview mirror-- a sparkle of recognition as the Scourge smiles into your fleeting look, reminding you of what’s at stake here.

Recover now, before it’s too late.

After a moment of silent waiting, Lexa reaches forward, snapping the door to the glove box open hurriedly and pulling out the stash that you had hidden in there when Tris’ text surprised you, leaving you with little time to plan. “This is what I’m fucking talking about Lincoln!”

Your older sister has now turned to face you, waving the bag in front of your face, tempting you with its very presence.

Fuck…

Recover…

“Jesus Christ, Lex,” you laugh again, this time attempting to pull the fake chuckle from your gut for authenticity. She doesn’t look sold. “I totally forgot that shit was even in there.” Her glare is unwavering. “I confiscated that on my way out of the hospital yesterday and haven’t been back to turn it in yet. Office was closed when I left.”

She’s not moving…

Her arm is still extended, her face fixated on yours…

Her breathing is still shallow as if she’s ready to snap at any moment…

And you’re failing.

In the back seat, the Scourge’s grin falls, reminding you of your shortcomings…

Reminding you of your failure.

“I mean, if I was on drugs, you’d know it.” As her arm retreats, you turn your face to her, biting back the anxiety around your lips as you attempt to smile. She smiles awkwardly back, pivoting in her seat to face the front, the bag still in her fingers. “Hey,” you nudge her with your elbow, pushing her against the door with a small laugh. “I’m running it in on Monday when I go back.”

The awkward smile that traces her lips carries back to you as she opens her mouth, speaking softer than before. “There’s no way to turn it in earlier?”

“Believe me,” you begin, taking a deep breath. You’re finally making headway. She’s finally buying it. “I’ve tried. I don’t what that shit in my car if I get pulled over…”

With a deep laugh, your sister interrupts you, placing the bag back in the glovebox and closing it behind her, turning back to face you again. “Please,” she says as she punches your shoulder gently, her laugh still littering her words. “You follow every law… you’ll never get pulled over.”

“Exactly,” you follow the conversation with a sigh, relaxing your shoulders at last. The Scourge simply nods in the backseat, finding his grin again.  “Another reason why I could never do drugs.”

As you glance up through the rearview mirror again, you see the Scourge nod, smiling back at you. Something about the way he grins sends another shiver up your spine-- It always does.

You may have sold Lexa… this time… but in order to keep this up, you’re going to have to up your game. The Scourge whispers to you gently, just beyond Lexa’s ability to hear, reminding you that you’re getting sloppy. “It’s time to clean up your game,” he says, caressing your shoulders as he retreats back into the shadows of the backseat.

Sighing, you grip the steering wheel, suddenly exhausted at your interactions.

This was harder than you thought it would be.

\---

**OCTAVIA**

After 7 episodes of Bubble Guppies, 4 illegally streamed Paw Patrols and 2 warmed bottles, Myles is finally asleep in his crib and you finally have your fingers wrapped tightly around the glass of blush Martin Ray rose that you’ve been eyeballing all day. In fact, more days than not, you watch that bottle from the outside of the cabinet, bouncing your son while you count down the green LCD numbers on the microwave or pace through the rooms of your house singing songs from whatever Disney movie you just watched earlier that day. You never thought about the fact that opening another academy meant that Lincoln would be gone more times than not…

Just like you never realized how having a child would mean giving up everything…

With your tank-top covered back leaning against the cold wood of the kitchen chairs, you swirl the wine in your glass, scrolling through your facebook feed on your phonw, looking at the lives of all of those people who aren’t marred with kids.

Miller on his hiking trips…

Fox with her backpacking through Europe pictures…

Sterling who is touring across the east coast with his band…

Lee and his Teach For America kids…

Fuck, the entire universe seems to have something great going on…

And then there’s you…

Waiting for your son to wake up again as you drown yourself in your second glass of wine within the hour. Listening to the shuffling from one room over, you wonder for a brief moment what it would be like to not be tied down…

How different would your life be?

How much happier would you be?

Would you be backpacking through Europe?

Would you be building houses in the inner city?

Would you be hiking and fishing and caving and climbing?

Or would you still be here…

Waiting for your husband to get home…

Taking a deep breath, you try to drown out the silence, sliding your finger over the headphones icon on your phone and pressing play without second thought.

But suddenly you regret it.

_I lie awake again, my bodies feeling paralyzed. I can’t remember when I didn’t live through this disguise. The words you said to me, they couldn’t set me free._

Pouring another glass, you watch the liquid run down the side of the clear barrier, leaving a rosey trail in its wake as it pools up at the bottom, filling the glass slowly in your hands. The weight tips from one side to the other as you become hyper aware of it, silencing the outside static of your surroundings.

_I’m stuck here in this life I didn’t ask for. There must be something more, do we know what we’re fighting for? Breathe in. Breathe out. And all these masks we wore, we never knew what we had in store. Breathe in. Breathe out._

Taking another deep breath, guilt rushes over you as the bottom of the bottle finds the table, the bottom of your glass following quickly. Lifting your hands to your face, you exhale slowly though your fingers, feeling each particle of air as it rushes between your digits and out into the world, bringing with them your emotions for everyone to see. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go.

_The storm is rolling in. The thunder’s loud. It hurts my ears. I’m paying for my sins and it’s going to rain for years and years. I fooled everyone and now what will I become? I have to start this over. I have to start this over._

You weren’t supposed to be doing this alone. You weren’t supposed to be so angry all of the time. You weren’t supposed to feel like running away or caving in. You weren’t supposed to wonder what it was like to not have a child anymore or to wish for moments alone. You weren’t supposed to want to ignore your child and cry from the other side of the door as you beg him to stop screaming.

_There must be something more, do we know what we’re fighting for? Breathe in. Breathe out. And all these masks we wore, we never knew what we had in store. Breathe in. Breathe out._

And when your head meets the table in front of you with a thud and your eyes close, you feel it… you feel… alone…

_I fooled everyone and now what will I become? I have to start this over. I have to start this over._

And when your head meets the table in front of you with a thud and your eyes close, you feel it… you feel… like giving up…

_There must be something more, do we know what we’re fighting for? Breathe in. Breathe out. And all these masks we wore, we never knew what we had in store. Breathe in. Breathe out._

And just when you don’t feel like you can breathe anymore…  Just when your shoulders feel too heavy to lift your head from the cold table below, you hear it…

From the room next to you, you hear a small giggle exit your son’s mouth, carrying itself through the doorway and to you, spreading a smile across your lips as it dances around you, wrapping you in the warmth of his joy like a scarf to keep your warm in this depression.

Lifting your head, your smile carries you to your feet, dragging your now exhausted body through the kitchen and into Myles’ room, bringing you to the edge of the crib where your sleeping son lays, arms stretched over his head full of dark hair.

There is something more…

Reaching into the crib, you gather the boy in your arms, holding him close to your chest as you breathe in deeply his scent-- baby smell and lavender.

There is something more…

And this is it.

\---

**BELLAMY**

Watching Martial Arts tournaments was something like watching a bunch of hungry animals fight over a piece of meat-- even if you won, you came out bloodied and beaten to all hell and for you, it made little sense. Supposedly in all of it was a grading scale that allowed for so many points to be awarded for certain things, but no matter how many times Lexa and Lincoln tried to explain it, you never found the logic. Instead, you resorted to sending snapchat videos to Harper while admiring the athleticism possessed by some of these people…

Lincoln was not one of those people, however, and in spite of his skill and in spite of his ability, he wasn’t doing as well as he had hoped, and this was becoming more and more obvious with each event.

First, his nunchaku routine was on point-- at least as far as you knew, but he placed third, losing to a woman who was probably about 5 feet tall on her tip toes wielding a sword and a man who looked like he stepped out of a Land’s End magazine with a boat oar. It was all very bizarre to you, but to Lincoln, it seemed like the end of the world.

“He’s taking this all a little hard, don’t you think?” you ask, passing the nachos (or at least what the high school gym tries to pass as nachos) to Lexa, watching as Lincoln lines up for his second event. The stress levels are obviously elevated as his shoulders and jaw clench simultaneously, his hand reaching out to hand his registration card to the judge.

“He always does this,” your best friend corrects you, grabbing a couple of the chips and dipping them in the melted plastic excuse for cheese, cramming them into her mouth before trying to speak again. “He gets really excited about competing and then when he gets beat by younger kids with backflips, he gets a butt hurt and goes on about it for the next year.” She sighs deeply though the hand that’s covering her mouth as she chews, her eyes falling from you to her brother on the gym floor below. “I just wish he wasn’t so hard on himself all of the time…. He’s not 18 anymore…”

“Yeah,” is all you know to say, not exactly understanding what she means until the first competitor enters the ring. The man before you looks to be 12 years old, donning a mouth full of braces and a haircut obviously influenced by Justin Bieber, but when he begins his routine, your mouth falls to the floor, leaving your speechless and Lexa sighing beside you, rubbing her eyes with a clenched hand.

“He’s going to get his ass kicked here too,” she finally says as Lincoln takes his starting position, beginning a more traditional form than the boy who back flipped while holding his toes. In fact, Lincoln’s feet barely left the floor and although his form looked great-- he wasn’t exciting… not like the children that surrounded him. And this was becoming more obvious the longer that he stays on the floor.

After that event, you can do nothing but watch as your friend gears up for what appears to be gladiatorial combat. He slides pads over his elbows and knees as if he’s about to whip out a skateboard or a BMX bike while pulling a foam head pad out of his bag, sliding a black mouth piece into the corner of his lips and turning to you and Lexa. With a thumbs up to both of you, he smiles and you can feel Lexa’s shoulders drop as the anxiety leaves her body.

“Okay,” she begins, sliding closer to the end of her seat on the bleachers. She rests her chin in her hands, covering her mouth with her fingers and breathes quickly, exhaling loudly through her fingers. “He actually has a chance in this event,” she says, turning her head to face you. You smile as the words “Lincoln never loses fighting,” meet your ears.

There’s something about the way that Lexa talks about her brother that makes you sort of jealous. Even if he’s younger than her and even if she’s survived more than he has, she still speaks of him like he hung the moon and laid out the foundations for the universe. When Lexa talks of Lincoln’s accomplishments, she speaks with this sense of surety-- as if, in her eyes, he’s never lost at anything. When she speaks of Lincoln, it makes you wonder if Octavia feels the same about you. When Lexa speaks about Lincoln, there’s never any doubt of whether or not she’s proud of him…

Have you ever given Octavia reason to be as proud of you as Lexa is of Lincoln?

Before you can even finish your thoughts, Lexa’s hand has left her face, throwing itself over her head as she stands, shouting out into the ring from the crowd. You’ve only ever seen her get into two sports in the entire time that you’ve known her, but one thing is for sure-- when Lexa gets involved, Lexa really gets involved…

And martial arts makes three.

“Get the fuck up and go Lincoln,” she screams before apologizing to the family in front of her. The mother’s glare makes you smile, chuckling under your breath while Lexa continues to shout. “Hands up…” “Keep moving…” “Get in there and break him down…” The next two minutes are nothing but a blur to you of fists meeting eye sockets and your friend picking his breaking body off of the floor, but what you were able to understand from it all was that Lincoln lost, and this was only because his reaction.

As the judge calls the final point, Lincoln rips at his headgear, tossing the foam helmet to the floor before storming past his opponent’s outstretched hand, brushing off the young man who was requesting a shake and slamming his body through the door next to the ring, leaving them alone in the gym with the other thousand people inside.

“What the hell happened?” you ask as you turn to Lexa who falls quickly into her seat, exhaling slowly before she speaks.

“He lost,” she says, rubbing her eyes.

With a small snort, you watch as the judge gathers the next two fighters, sizing up their competition before turning back to your friend. Her freckles are masked over with the red flushing through her cheeks as she breathes in deeply and out slowly. “No shit,” you laugh, placing a hand on her knee. “I mean what happened with Lincoln? I’ve never seen him get so upset…”

It’s true. Lately he’s been more high strung than not, but that will happen with a new business and a new baby…

But this…

This kind of outburst…

That wasn’t like Lincoln…

“Let’s not bring it up,” Lexa finally says, a nod forcing its way through your neck at her words.

Something still sat wrong about the entire situation and even though you couldn’t put your finger on it, you knew it was there…

Something was weird.


	8. JULY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright guys, here it is!!!   
>  leave me some comments so i know how you're feeling! I'm getting super into these next few chapters and i'm really excited about where everything is going to go... if you have any ideas, let me know!!!!
> 
> add me on tumblr and let's be best friends! http://shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com/
> 
> CHECK OUT THE PLAYLIST TO GO WITH THIS WORK: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4  
> it's updated each chapter with all of the songs included in the work!!

**JULY**

**LINCOLN**

As the summer months began drawing themselves to a conclusion, the unchanging weather outside gave no indication of the turmoil that was growing within you. Normally, you loved the 4th of July with your family. Normally you invested all of your time and efforts into the barbeque and the collective drinking games and fireworks and humor that would ensue. Normally, you’d actually give a damn. But it’s been 5 months since the birth of Myles and you’ve been unable to break yourself of this habit… this stupid fucking habit… which is all it was…

This wasn’t an addiction…

Addiction implied weakness…

Addiction said that you couldn’t handle it…

It was a habit…

It was something that you did because you enjoyed it and that was it…

It wasn’t an addiction…

With your hands shaking and sweat beginning to bead up at your temples in Bellamy and Harper’s bathroom, you pull the small, dwindling bag from your pocket, producing the  final remnants of what should have been your 5th “last time”.

But it never was…

This wasn’t an addiction…

Spreading the bag out on the counter top, your left hand fingered at the small straw that you had learned to keep in your pocket at all times. Honestly, the straw made it easier…

A direct path was always better…

But this wasn’t an addiction…

As the powder spread across the bag, you pull the straw from your pocket, bending down close to the counter before taking your first hit, inhaling the dust directly into your sinuses. There’s a burn… There’s always a burn… But it’s nothing like it was. In fact, you barely flinch now as the Binge feels like it enters your brain, the numbness filling your body almost instantly. Inhaling deeply, you lift your head, standing up straight to stretch a little bit before continuing to finish the pack. With a roll of your shoulders and a small cough, you reclaim your bent position before a quick knock at the door startles you, your hand brushing your fix onto the floor with a flow of profanities.

“Lincoln, are you alright?” your sister’s voice asks through the door, concern rattling off the words that make their way through the thick wood to you. Blinking quickly, you try to hide the shuffling sounds as you fight with the bag on the floor, trying to lift as much of your fix as you can onto the countertop without spilling anymore.

How many times will you snort coke off of a bathroom floor?

“Yeah, I’ll be right out Sis,” you reply before you notice how out of character that sounds.

Shit…

By the lack of noise from the other side of the wooden barrier, you can tell that Lexa hasn’t left and you can basically hear the sound of her heartbeat against the door frame, carrying itself through the air waves into your brain. It’s like you could feel the life force of everything around you, but if you didn’t finish your fix soon, you’d lose this…

But this isn’t an addiction…

You just need this…

After all, this is the last time…

It’s always the last time…

“Lexa, I’m fine,” the anger in your voice bites, sending her back a couple of steps. As her body retakes its position on the door frame of the other side of the threshold, you glance around the floor at the mess that you’ve created. There’s too much Snow to just leave there, but honestly, how much of it do you need?

Who the fuck are you kidding?

You need all of it.

You may not want this to be an addiction….

But this is an addiction…

Her breathing intensifies through the door and you can hear her exhale slowly, the anxiety trembling in her face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, still scanning the floor around you. There’s so much debris. “I’m just really stressed and I need a minute, okay?”

She can’t deny you this…

Not after everything…

She’d never deny you this…

“Okay,” the sound of her breaking heart echoes through the wood, pushing into your chest as it cuts you open. “We’ll all be out here when you’re ready to come out.”

\---

**LEXA**

Lincoln’s words burn as you step back as if he’d lunge through the door at you at any moment. Honestly, it felt like he had. It felt like you narrowly dodged the knife in his hand, it barely missing your heart as he shoved through the door, pushing you back three steps. Taking a step and a half forward, you place your hands on the door frame, leaning your forehead against the wood and listening to the sounds inside of the room. He was still, silent, and this was concerning…

For the past few months, Lincoln had been anything but still and silent.

For the past few months, Lincoln had been anything but your brother.

His apology falls on deaf ears as you pull yourself from thought just in time to process what he said after the fact. Lifting your eyes from the floor, you push off of the door frame with a small “okay” and a reminder that he’s loved-- hoping that’s enough.

You don’t want to accept the place that your mind is going…

You don’t want to think that this is all tied in with what you found in his car…

You don’t want to believe that your brother could have fallen…

No…

Not Lincoln…

Lincoln’s the strong one…

Lincoln’s not the broken one…

That’s you…

That’s always been you…

“What’s up babe?” Clarke voice drags you from the pits of your darkness, surfacing you to breathe as she wraps her arms around you, keeping you afloat. With her chin on your shoulder, you lean back into her grasp smiling as your hands find the belt loops on her jeans, pulling her hips into you.

5 weeks pregnant now…

They say that the thing growing inside of Clarke should have a heart beat at this point…

Smiling at the idea of your child… your and Clarke’s child… having a heartbeat, you reach one hand up, losing it into her blonde hair as you turn your head to kiss her. “I’m heading back outside now,” you tell her, turning into her grasp. With your arms around her, you kiss her again, this time on her forehead, feeling her eyelashes against your chin as she blinks.

It’s the little things like this that remind you that sometimes, some things can be okay.

“Good, because Murphy’s about to burn down the whole place if you don’t help him with the grill.”

A laugh lines the corners of your lips as you mumble something about the lesbian saving the day, but your joke was cut short by the door behind you opening quickly, forcing distance between you and Clarke as you both jump back, Lincoln emerging quickly between you two and then passing by without acknowledging you.

“What’s wrong with him?” your wife asks, concern tracing circles on her jaw as she clenches her cheeks.

“Stress,” you reply, hoping for that to be the truth…

It can only be stress…

Nothing more…

\---

**BELLAMY**

That’s the only way that you can explain the feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Like you can’ t stand… can’t speak.. an intense pain all over… something squeezing you into a ball…

Harper smiles at you through the window of your kitchen, your eyes meeting hers as her lips fall quickly. She’s catching on.

Like a tingling inside of you… dizziness… like ice running through your veins… A wall closing in on you…

You wave it off, averting eye contact and returning your focus to the fire pit that Murphy had been trying to light for over an hour now. Taking the lighter in your hand, you roll the device through your fingers as he continues to speak words that you aren’t even hearing.

Like taking off except the engine carrying you into the clouds is fear…

He takes the lighter from your hand and ignites a piece of cardboard, shoving the burning paper into the pile of sticks and papers bending down to the fire’s level to check its progress. You’re numb to the changing of your environment… all you can feel is anxiety.

Like everyone around you is looking at you… sucking the air out of your lungs…

He nudges you back gently, allowing the fire to grow as he blows on the flames, his smile growing at his small victory. With his hand on your chest, your friend pushes you back one more step, backing away with you as the flames consume the wood surrounding them.

Like a rollercoaster through a burning building with no escape…

Your girlfriend steps in close to you, wrapping her arm through yours and whispering words that you can’t hear through the growing sound of an engine idling and conversation among friends. You’re not here anymore… You’re not in Macomb… and nothing you can do is going to pull you back… “Bell?” she asks before it happens…

Like you need to get out… and if you don’t… you’re going to die…

The cracking sound of the flame did it, bringing you to that point.

This is the end.

Turning quickly, your fingers find the knife strapped to your belt, opening the blade as you grab the man holding tight to your arm. He was inching you closer to the flame just before the explosion, pushing you one step at a time towards death.

As your arm wraps around his neck, he screams out to you, calling you by name. “Bellamy, stop,” one of your team mates attempts to protect the traitor. You back away, taking the man in your arm with you, the blade hugging gently against his neck. Had he not tried to push you into that fire, this wouldn’t have to happen and you remind him over and over again of this as you back yourself against the wall, pulling tighter on his neck.

You had to protect yourself…

If nothing else, you had to protect yourself.

\---

**LEXA**

“Bellamy, stop!” you exit the house just in time to hear Murphy scream out from beside his new creation, the flame dancing around his feet.

And then your eyes shift.

And then fear bursts through you, destroying any other emotions you could have been feeling.

You dart towards your friend, stopping just short of his reach as he pulls Harper closer to his body, the knife against her neck as her skin ripples under the blade.

“Bellamy, don’t,” you add, lifting your hands against the air in front of you. “Look, this isn’t you.”

Your words fall on deaf ears, however, as Bellamy’s brown eyes shuffle quickly back and forth inside of his skull, never once focusing on anything around you.

Even though this wasn’t him…

He wasn’t here anymore…

So it didn’t matter…

He was in that desert in Mali…

And you had to get him back.

“Don’t come near me,” he argues, pushing the blade closer to Harper when you take a step forward, your hands pleading still for him to release her. “I’ll fucking do it. I’ll slit his throat right here…”

The fear in Harper’s eyes is strong enough to blind you as you glance quickly between her and Bellamy. The contrast in their pupils is enough proof for you to know with absolute declaration that you’ve lost your friend for the moment.

“Look,” you negotiate, taking another step. You can feel Murphy’s hand on the back of your arm attempting to pull you back as the breathing of the group behind you intensifies. They’re begging you to stop, but you can’t.

This has to be done.

And you have to be the one to do it.

“Bellamy,” you catch his eyes as they swivel in his head, shifting rapidly from side to side. “Look at me… Do you see me?” When you get closer, you can see the tremble in his hands as it pushes the blade into Harper’s skin. When you get closer, you can see her finger nails digging into his forearm, the blood pooling around them as he refuses to falter under her grip. When you get closer, you can smell the fear emanating from both of them. “Look, remember this?” you ask as you push your arm out towards him, grazing just past Harper’s head to his chest. “Remember these scars?” The glint of recognition gives you just enough footing for you to pull his hand away from her throat as he fights back slightly, offering little resistance, but resistance none the less. “And remember mine?” you ask him, taking the knife in your hand and quickly throwing it away to the side. Your free hand finds the hand around Harper’s neck, her breathing catching against your forearm when you pry his grip open.

She sprints quickly to the group behind you, leaving you alone with Bellamy. Holding tight to his hands, you lock your fingers through his, pulling his left hand to your left forearm. “It is a rough road that leads to the heights of greatness,” you mumble to him, allowing his fingers to trace over your scars, following the lines that you tattooed on your skin years ago.

And with a quick blink and the dropping of his shoulders, he replies “Sometimes even to live is an act of courage,” finishing Lucius Annaeus Seneca’s quote before he falls into you, allowing you to hold him up. “I’m fucked up,” he mumbles through the tears and the massive group sigh that has filled the air around you.

“Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two very different things,” you reply only loud enough for him to hear as Lincoln approaches quickly, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Two… very… different… things…”

\---

**CLARKE**

There was a part of you that was not at all comfortable with your wife staying with Bellamy tonight, but that part of you took a back seat to the part that side that finally knew the magnitude of Lexa and Bellamy’s relationship. You always knew that they understood each other and you knew about each of their baggage, but you had never even begun to comprehend what this meant for either of them…

Not until you watched your wife approach her best friend…

Not until you saw her hands lock inside his, pulling his fingertips to her…

Not until his eyes focused in on her, returning your friend back to reality…

Until today, you never completely understood Bellamy’s baggage…

And how much he needed Lexa.

So when she approached you saying that Harper was going home with you and that she and Lincoln were staying with Bellamy tonight, you couldn’t argue… especially when a trembling Harper made her way from their bedroom, backpack thrown across her shoulder and eyes focused on the ground.

And then the words escape your mouth and you instantly regret them as you say, “take your time.”

Lexa smiles against you, wrapping you tightly in her arms and kissing you shoulder. “I love you,” she tells you before pushing away, retreating from the living room and into the guest bedroom where she’s going to be staying.

“I love you,” you whisper back, your eyes shifting to your blonde friend beside you. “Ready?” you ask, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Harper simply nods, retreating into whatever place she goes in order to cope.

You’ve seen this before-- in Bellamy… in Lexa… hell, in yourself. She’s breaking down, but nothing you can say is going to stop it. So instead of trying, you settle for ushering her towards the door, gripping tighter at her shoulder as you exit the house, a tremble leaving with her.

What’s a couple of days, right?

In any instance, this is what your family needs.

If this is going to be what keeps everyone together, these are the sacrifices that you will make.

After all, love will have its sacrifices.

After closing the car door behind her, your eyes glance up to the door of the house, meeting with Bellamy who is watching as the two of you pack up to leave.

You really shouldn’t…

You should just drive off, taking Harper away from this place that she doesn’t feel safe…

But you’ve known Bellamy too long…

And you know better.

Closing the door that you were attempting to climb into, you close the 400 or so feet of distance between you two, looking at the man in front of you as his eyes fall to the floor.

“Look,” you begin, lifting his chin with your left hand. “You’ve always been a good roommate to me.” A smile peaks from the corner of his lips, spreading into yours. “You’ve never let me live anything down or hold anything against myself… Let us be that for you now, okay?” Your question goes unanswered as his eyes begin to wander. “Hey,” your attempts to draw him back only work once you’ve moved your hand to cup his cheek. “We’re going to make this right, okay?”

He nods slightly before you lift onto your toes, kissing his cheek and hugging his neck. Turning against him, you begin your walk back to the car, exhaling slowly the stale air that you’ve been holding in your lungs for entirely too long.

You’re not quite sure how…

But you’re going to make this right…

\---

**LEXA**

Waking up on the floor of that hotel room was not at all a new feeling for you… and yet it was... Never before had you had such a vivid dream… I mean, how could your brain compress nearly 2 years of life into just 4 hours of sleep? And more importantly, why would it? After everything that you’ve been through, why add more?

And yet it did.

And yet it reminded you of everything that you could never have.

A wedding.

A life.

A love.

A child.

Siding your hands under your body, you lift your aching frame from the striped carpet, feeling the indentions on your face as you rub your jawline, clenching your teeth while the darkness floods through the cracks in the walls, ripping through the cheap plaster and paint jobs, exposing the cavities that enamel had yet to cover. As the darkness rose, you drag your knees to your chest, taking a deep breath through the heaving of your chest, feeling the weight and pressure of the flood around you with each inhale. You were going to drown, but it didn’t matter to you.

Nothing mattered anymore.                                               

Especially after that dream…

How could your brain do that to you? How could your brain convince you that everything was okay?

Nothing is ever okay.

How could your brain show you all of the things that you wanted?

You could never have them.

How could your brain create the life that you wanted?

That life was for someone else…

Someone who wouldn’t give up.

Someone who hadn’t had to make the decisions that you did.

Someone who hadn’t just lost the love of their life.

Just as the flood of darkness reaches around your neck, you take in one final breath, allowing the waters to overtake you. Drowning isn’t the worst way to go, you guess.

And just when you’ve given up… just when you can’t hold your breath any longer, a familiar hand reaches down, pulling you from the depths of your darkness, lifting you from your feet. Inhaling deeply and shuddering the exhale, you collapse into Lincoln’s arms, feeling his firm grasp around your shoulders. Crumbling into him, you can’t even draw the words from the pit of your stomach as he simply utters the same phrases on repeat.

“I know…”

“I’m sorry…”

“I’m here…”

It’s the same shit that everyone has been saying for 25 days now.

It’s the same shit that everyone has been saying since they pulled that plug.

It’s the same shit that everyone has been saying since you lost Clarke.

“We have to get ready,” Lincoln says to you, breaking the train of stupid phrases that you never want to hear again to remind you of what day it is.

Today is the day it all ends.

Today is the day you say goodbye.

Lifting your head from his shoulder, you nod, allowing your brother to wipe the tears from your eyes as your stare falls to your trembling hands in your lap. They’re bruised and beaten-- reminding you of the brick walls outside that are dripping with your DNA, covered in the evidence of your abuse against them. The same goes for the tile in the bathroom floor… and the hole on the inside of the shower… and the shattered plaster in the corner of the room.

It hasn’t been easy on you… and surely it hasn’t been easy on Lincoln, watching you fall apart day after day…

But today is the day it all ends…

Today is the day you say goodbye…

-

When your phone rings with that familiar song that you haven’t been able to change, you allow it to play itself out, continuing the chorus on repeat… just like every terrible day that you’ve lived for the past month.

“And lightning comes and lightning goes and it's all the same to me…”

Reeling with the memories of your dream, you exhale deeply, sliding your fingers into the pocket of your black pants to produce your phone, but you can’t seem to grasp the device. You can’t seem to control your fingers anymore…

“Let it in because I want you so…”

Just like everything else…. You can’t control your fingers…

“I can hardly breathe or release into one thousand pieces I have broke into over you…”

And then you remember everything… At first it was coming in pieces, as dreams normally do, but suddenly, with the end of the chorus and the beep of your missed call alert, everything comes rushing back. A tidal wave of darkness knocks you to your knees, reminding you of the home that you’ve found on the cold, white tile of this hotel’s bathroom floor.

“The chain will soon be gone, and I keep burning on and on…”

Cutting deep into your bones, the sharp pain in your chest knocks the wind out of your lungs, leaving your stuttering through tears as you try to regain any composure that you could have ever possessed.

But you can’t…

And you won’t…

Not after that dream…

I mean, you got married for fuck’s sake… Clarke woke up and although she didn’t remember you, you worked through it and you two got married. Shit, you bought a house and built it into yours and you fought and loved and cried and laughed in that house. You two decided to have a baby and you listened to her as she complained about work and she held you while you cried about school and you two made a mother-fucking life together…

But you didn’t.

Because it was a dream.

Another…

Stupid…

Fucking…

Dream…

And when the door opens and your brother finds you on the floor of the bathroom yet again, curled into a ball, clenching your chest and heaving through the tears, attempting to gasp for air like a fish dumped onto the shore of reality, he falls to the ground beside you, pulling you into his chest for probably the 900 th time this month.

And those phrases begin again…

“I know…”

“I’m sorry…”

“I’m here…”

But it’s not enough…

Lifting your aching body to your feet, you push him away, shoving his large frame against the wall, your fist making contact with his jaw before the air pushes through his lips. “Get the fuck off of me!” you yell, your voice echoing as it dances off of the tile surrounding you, returning to your ears just as cold as it left.

“Lexa!” he argues, attempting to grab at your arms, but he misses when you dig your nails into his forearms and he pulls away quickly, leaving you with the feeling of his skin under your nails.

Shoving your way past the wooden door, the tangent begins again as you make your way through the connected rooms, hearing the shuffles of your friends around you. They’re saying words, but you can’t hear them. The blood in your ears has begun drowning out everything else and that is audible is your own rage, the pounding of your heart in your head destroying anything else. Flipping a chair, you thrash through the first room, unable to even stop yourself as your fist connects with the drywall again, the cracking in your fingers almost distracting you from the explosion in your brain.

But it’s not enough.

And as you make your way into the third room, Monty approaches you, his white suit shirt untucked and only one sleeve rolled up. You would look like twins in your matching attire had he only had a few more minutes to finish getting ready before you swept through the room like a hurricane-- destroying everything in your path.

“Woah buddy,” he says gently, hands up in surrender just as you sweep the paper work and empty bottles off of the table to your left, slamming a fist in the place that it all once occupied. “Lexa, stop.” He reaches out to you, but that shit isn’t happening.

They should know better by now…

And just like them, you should know better by now…

Had this worked any other way, the dream you had could have been reality…

Had you not walked out on Clarke, it could have played out that way…

But it didn’t…

Had you not been defeated, you could have lived that life…

But you were…

And you didn’t…

And as you fall to the floor, Monty following quickly to hold you in his arms, you’re reminded of the inevitable truth of it all…

“Lexa, she’s gone,” he repeats over and over again, holding tight to your hands as they tremble, shaking within his grasp.

This is all your fault.

It was all just a dream…

-

Had you thought that the worst of it was over, you would have been wrong. The funeral was way worse, but you’d expected this…

In fact, you’ve basically come to the understanding that everything after the last moment that you saw Clarke smile was going to be the worst thing that had ever happened to you…

And so far, you were right.

But even worse than the pounding in your head….

Even worse than the bandages around your knuckles…

Even worse than the taste of blood on your tongue and the pulsating of the broken skin on your lip and the swelling on your forehead from where you met the white, concrete outside of the funeral home…

Even worse than all of this was what sat at the end of that aisle…

In your dream, you stood surrounded by blues and yellows and friends and family, waiting on Clarke to join you…

But here… in reality… she was the one surrounded by Forget-Me-Nots and the tears of her mother, waiting at the end of the aisle in the same sundress that she wore that first day that you spent together…

Instead of art galleries and good food with Bellamy, she sat motionless, resting gently on the soft pink and white of the inside of that stupid fucking box.

Instead of waiting for you at the doors of the gelato restaurant and holding out a spoon for you to sample what chilis and chocolates mixed together taste like, she was waiting for you at the other side of the church, holding her fucking stethoscope and a necklace that her father gave her that she refused to wear out of fear of breaking it.

Instead of smiling with blue eyes wide open against the shade of the tree in the park as she laughed at Bellamy’s attempts to recreate a story from their past for you, she was still, motionless, with eyelids painted shut against the dimmed lights from 40 feet above as everyone around her looked to you.

Instead of being filled with life, Clarke was dead and that stupid fucking dress reminded you…

It was all just a dream…

The silence of the room around you is almost unbearable as Lincoln and Tris carry you down the aisle, forcing your feet forward as they grip tightly to your arms. If not for them, you wouldn’t be here…

If not for them, you wouldn’t be alive.

As the cold steel in your pocket rattles against your keys, a small wave of relief rushes over you… a small ripple of hope that this would be the last time…

And then you see her…

And then the magnitude of it hits you…

Like a freight train…

Like Clarke coming down those office stairs with a box full of weighted vests…

Like a broken nose, and a few months of love, and a heartbreak, and a car wreck, and a coma, and a death, and a terrible fucking dream, and waking up in hell…

This is hell.

Turning quickly, you break yourself from Lincoln and Tris’ grip darting quickly towards the exit, stumbling as your legs give under you. Finding yourself on the floor yet again, you give in, the emotions taking you by surprise. Your hand emerges from your pocket before you were even aware that it was there, pulling with it the anchor that keeps you grounded in your depression.

As the blade finds your wrist, you hear the one voice that could save you at this point, pulling your hand away quickly. “Lexa, stop,” Bellamy argues, his face swollen with the tears he’s shed, the tears he’s yet to cry, and the tears streaming down his cheeks now. As you tug against him, arguing your case, your eyes meet his and you can’t fight anymore. He’s too broken to carry on and yet he’s standing, trying to pry the blade from your already bleeding wrist.

When did you even make it to this bathroom?

“Lexa, hey, stop,” he continues to plead with you, shaking you gently. “Lexa, wake up,” he shouts, the final jolt, causing you to stumble.

And then it changes…

As if an acid trip from hell or emerging from a coma, you wake up surrounded by darkness, the weight of your friend holding your arms to the bed underneath you.

“Lexa, stop,” a disheveled Bellamy fights against you, holding your arms down while you continue to scream.

What the fuck is even real anymore?

“You were dreaming,” he explains over your tears as exhaustion releases itself into your body, beginning at your very core and melting into your extremities. “It wasn’t real.”

When his hands release you, they find their way to your shoulders, pulling you into his grasp. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, feeling your breath as is beats against his bare shoulder.

“It wasn’t real,” you repeat, stuttering every syllable as they exit your mouth.

“It wasn’t real.

\---

**Bellamy**

“They say that war is hell,” Lexa begins, taking the mug from your hands as you lower yourself onto the floor next to her. She pauses, taking a sip of the coffee, pulling the blanket over her knees that are pulled tightly to her chest. You’ve only ever seen her drink coffee one other time in her life… and you’d rather not return to that time…  “but darling, true hell begins when…”

“When the battle ends and you’re the only one whose hands still drip red,” you interrupt her, finishing the quote as you pull your knees in to follow suite, tugging the blanket with them. “Tumblr?” you ask her, bringing your mug to your own lips. The steam from the coffee meets your lips before liquid and you pull away quickly, rethinking it all.

Burning the inside of your mouth isn’t what you want to add to today’s chaos. Lexa nods her head beside you, reaching for the hand that you just dropped in your lap, interlocking her fingers between yours. “Do you want to know what I dreamed about?” she asks, her whispers dancing around your head as you turn slowly to face her. Her eyes are down, focusing on the designs on the blanket covering your body from the cold of your house. You nod back in return, ushering the words from her mouth as she continues to speak. “I dreamed that it was all a lie… everything… and that Clarke never woke up…” The exhale that escapes your lips is slow and heavy, the air sinking below you, pushing your eyes up to face her still. “and we were at her funeral…”

This isn’t what you wanted to hear right now…

But you honestly didn’t know what you were expecting…

Fuck, you never knew what to expect anymore.

Nothing really made sense.

“How fucked up are we?” you laugh to her, bringing your mug to your lips at last. She does the same, her chuckle rattling her shoulder against your arm.

“Yeah, we’re kind of a mess.”

\---

**LEXA**

The clock on the microwave changes quickly, reminding you of the early hour that the two of you find yourselves laid out on the kitchen floor, surrounded by empty water bottles, coffee mugs, open wrappers, and the words that you’ve yet to speak.

“It’s 4am,” you grumble to Bellamy, returning your head to the floor as you lay back, looking up at the ceiling. “What time do you work?”

He groans a response before simply stating “7.” That’s 3 hours away… but the hospital is an hour away and he still needs to shower and get dressed. “I’ve got an hour,” he adds as if he’s read your mind.

You stifle the small laugh that crosses your tongue as you turn your stare away from the ceiling above, turning your head to face him while the rest of your body stays planted on the cold tile below. You can feel the chill of the glossed tiles through your tank, causing the small ripples of goosebumps to surface on your arms and shoulders. “Just checking.” He turns his head to face you, just inches from your face, breath warming your nose as you smell coffee on him. “You know, it’s really quiet in your house,” you say to him, lifting yourself up just far enough to reach your phone at the base of your lap, laying back down as you scroll through the music on the device, listening to the breathing next to you.

“Yeah, add that to the list of things to fix in this place,” Bellamy jokes as you click play, listening to the soft guitar rhythm as you lay the phone next to you.

“You know,” you say, just before the voice adds in a soft cover of the pop song that hurt your heart more than it should. “I hate Taylor Swift, but this song is nice… especially this version.”

Sure, it was pointed.

Sure, it was specific.

But, it was something that he needed.

_Loving her is like driving a new Maserati down a dead-end street… Faster than the wind, passionate as sin, ending so suddenly…_

The snort of laughter that exits Bellamy’s lungs brings a smile to your face. Rolling over on to your side, you tuck your right arm between your face and the white tile, turning to face your best friend. “Shut up and listen,” you order him, watching as he rolls to face you. Closing your eyes, you take your own orders, listening to the soft guitar strums and slightly nasaly grind of youtube artist Andrew Galucki.

_Loving her is like trying to change your mind once you're already flying through the free fall… Like the colors in autumn, so bright just before they lose it all…_

Bellamy’s breathing staggers beside you as he reaches out to you, grabbing your hand. His grip tightens around your fingers while the shudder surges from his hands into yours. Opening your eyes slightly, you catch the tears that are racing over the bridge of his nose, falling onto the floor.

_Losing her was blue like I'd never known… Missing her was dark grey all alone…_

Instead of drawing attention to them, you decide to take the other route, closing your eyes again and pretending like you didn’t see them. Bellamy was like you. If he wanted to talk, he would have.

_Forgetting her was like trying to know somebody you never met… But loving her was red…._

As the song continues, so does the silence lingering around the house, reminding you and Bellamy of everything that has changed. Even if you haven’t lost your love, the lyrics still remind you of a darker time… reminding you of what it was like to feel alone and to feel lost…

_Touching her was like realizing all you ever wanted was right there in front of you… Memorizing her was as easy as knowing all the words to your old favorite song…_

Reminding you of what it felt like to walk out of that apartment that night…

_Fighting with her was like trying to solve a crossword and realizing there's no right answer… Regretting her was like wishing you never found out that love could be that strong…_

Reminding you of what it felt like to wake up alone the next morning…

_Losing her was blue like I'd never known… Missing her was dark grey all alone…_

Reminding you of what it felt like to not receive a call or text days later…

_Forgetting her was like trying to know somebody you never met… But loving her was red…_

Reminding you of what it felt like to get that phone call…

_Remembering her comes in flashbacks and echoes… Tell myself it's time now, gotta let go…_

Reminding you of what it felt like to enter that hospital room…

_But moving on from her is impossible… When I still see it all in my head…_

Reminding you of what it felt like to wake up from the countless nightmares you’ve had since that day…

_Oh, losing her was blue like I'd never known… Missing her was dark grey all alone…_

Reminding you of what it felt like to wake up in her arms…

_Forgetting her was like trying to know somebody you never met… 'Cause loving her was red…_

“You know that I hate you, right?” Bellamy chimes in as the last chord rings out, his hand reaching for the phone from yours. You release it to him, not opening your eyes. You can tell in his voice and in the heaviness of his hand that he hasn’t fully recovered himself yet and you’re not quite ready to raise awareness to this.

He’s not quite ready for you to raise awareness to this.

“Yeah, but you love me still,” you laugh, curling both hands under your cheek now that they’re free. The clicking of Bellamy’s fingers against the keyboard on your phone serenades you as exhaustion begins to take its foothold. It was time for one of two things… either more coffee… or sleep… but you’ve already taken down more coffee tonight than you had in the last 10 or so years combined… and until you felt like Bellamy was safe from himself, you couldn’t allow yourself that luxury.

And for a second, there is a silence that echoes while Bellamy’s hand finds yours, the phone resting in between you two as he pulls the blanket up higher over your bodies. “If we’re going to go with colors, I’ll offer this one as a reply,” he says just as a sound like wind begins, a smile spreading across your face.

That is until you remember what this song is really about…

And then the smile drops, your eyes opening to face your friend whose head is buried deep into the blankets protecting you from the outside world.

_Your little brother never tells you but he loves you so… You said your mother only smiled on her TV show…_

He’s not moving and you can’t help but wonder what brought this song to his head.

_You're only happy when your sorry head is filled with dope… I hope you make it to the day you're 28 years old…_

“Bell?” you ask with no response waiting. Taking a deep breath in, you tighten your grip on his hand, pulling it in under your cheek again. He unwraps his fingers, cupping you cheek softly as you exhale.

_You're dripping like a saturated sunlight… You're spilling like an overflowing sink…_

While your eyes trace over the curvature of Bellamy’s jaw, you note things that you’ve never seen before… or rather things that you’ve never noticed before. The lines at the corner of his eyes that once illuminated with his smile had now begun to fade, leaving darkened rings in their wake…

_You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece… And now you're tearing through the pages and the ink…_

The freckles on your best friend’s face were shadowed by the growing facial hair that he had been either too distracted with survival or too exhausted with living to shave. It wasn’t quite noticeable, but it wasn’t quite shaven either…

_Everything was blue… His pills, his hands, his jeans…_

His dimples that cradled the corners of his smile were sunken in as this skin on his cheeks was stretched back further than you remembered…

_And now I'm covered in the colors… Pulled apart at the seams… And it's blue…_

He was withering away on you…

_Everything was grey… His hair, his smoke, his dreams…_

But yet there was something else at play. Something in the way that his hand rested on the side of your face told a different story…

_And now he's so devoid of color… He don't know what it means…_

Something in the way that his hand rested on the side of your face reminded you of Bellamy during that first weekend…

_And he's blue… He's blue…_

Something in the way that his hand rested on the side of your face reminded you of the way that he spoke to you with absolute honesty and openness…

_You were a vision in the morning when the lights came through… I know I've only felt religion when I've lied with you…_

Something in the way that his hand rested on the side of your face reminded you of the strength that he had inside of him…

_You said you'll never be forgiven 'til your boys are too… And I'm still waking every morning but it's not with you…_

Something in the way that his hand rested on the side of your face told you that it was going to be okay…

_Everything is blue…_

Even if he didn’t necessarily think so in this moment.

Yawning, you closed your eyes one last time, listening as the soft music continues to play, pushing you ever closer into the safe darkness behind your eyelids.

\---

**BELLAMY**

When the bridge starts, you can’t stop it. You’ve started this monster-- you welcomed her into this demon-- and now it was about to destroy you. You knew that if you opened your eyes right now, you would surely come face to face with Lexa’s brown eyes, staring innocently into you, wondering what she could do to help you…

She was just like that-- always trying to shoulder everyone else’s weight.

But there was nothing that she could do…

It was all in your head…

_You were red and you liked me because I was blue…_

And you can’t help but wonder at which point would Lexa walk away too…

_You touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky_

Just like Clarke did…

_And you decided purple just wasn't for you_

Because at some point or another, everyone leaves…

_Everything is blue… His pills, his hands, his jeans…_

Because at some point or another, you hurt everyone…

_And now I'm covered in the colors… Pulled apart at the seams…_

And there’s nothing that you can do about it…

_Everything is blue… And it's blue…_

Because it’s all in your head…

“I’ve got to go,” you say once the song comes to its sudden conclusion, opening your eyes to find a sleeping Lexa, holding tight to your hand under her cheek. She breathes softly, her fingers interlocked with yours, pulling the blanket under her chin. A small smile breaks across your lips as you pull you hand back softly, making sure to not drop her face on the cold tile below her.

Lifting yourself to your feet, you bend down over her small body, sliding one arm under her shoulders. “Come on Commander,” you whisper to your friend, receiving a small shrug against you in response, “Let’s get you to bed.” She turns into you, grumbling under her breath as she allows you to help her to her feet, leaning into your arm as you walk her through the house and into the guest bed room. Sitting her on the corner of the bed, you laugh as she collapses into the sheets, not even bothering to cover her body from the ceiling fan above. Pulling the sheets up to her shoulders, you push her hair from her face, smiling at her scrunched lips pushing into the pillow below.

For being as graceful of a human being as she always was, Lexa Woods was a toddler at heart.

Turning against the bed, you begin to make your way out of the room before you hear her call out to you. “Bell?” she asks softly through her groggy voice and the fabric of the pillow.

“Yeah?” you ask, leaning against the door frame as you turn on your heel to see her unmoved.

“You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece,” she quotes in grumbles, bringing a smile to your lips.

“Lex?” you ask leaning into the room, left hand still holding tight to the wooden door. “Have you ever read Knowing What’s Nice by Kurt Vonnegut?” You receive a small groan of affirmation from your friend who rolls over onto her side, pulling the blankets tighter around her body as she does. “"I urge you to please notice when you are happy," you quote, not even knowing if you’re talking to her or to yourself at this point.

But maybe it doesn’t matter…

Maybe you’re talking to all of you…

Or maybe just you…

“I’m happy,” she mumbles through the sheet that has found its way over her head as you pull the door shut, smile still lingering on your lips.

“I was too,” you reply once the door is shut, rubbing your eyes before making your way into your bedroom to shower and begin your day. “I was too…”

\---

**CLARKE**

Pushing through the large metal doors, you’re thankful for the hot, outside air as it fills your lungs, pushing away the chill of death that was lingering behind you from inside of the hospital.

There was too much death here.

Has there always been this much death?

Or is this pregnancy thing messing with you this much?

With one hand on your stomach, you silence your thoughts, exhaling slowly and feeling for any sign of movement. They say that you shouldn’t be able to start feeling your baby moving yet, but you want to… and the lack of movement is terrifying.

No connection…

No reality…

No movement…

After countless doctor’s appointments from fear of losing them, you’ve learned to accept the fact that you just don’t feel anything. After countless reassurances that everything is progressing perfectly, you’ve learned to accept the fact that you just don’t feel anything.

Maybe it’s that you’re still figuring yourself out…

Maybe it has something to do with the coma…

Or maybe it’s the way it’s supposed to be…

But no matter the source, one thing is for sure…

You still don’t feel anything…

Especially when you’re surrounded by nothing but death.

With a deep sigh, you allow the metal doors to close behind you, not even worrying about the fact that you’re now locked out and will have to walk around the building in order to get back in…

The break would be nice…

As your feet carry you through the alley way, your mind wanders, counting the cigarette butts on the concrete below and wondering what story each held.

Whose lips touched the filter last?

What was their reason for turning to the sticks?

We all have our reasons for falling.

Turning the corner to the side of the building, you throw your body back around against the brick, cranking your head around to see if what you think you saw was actually what you really saw. Lurking around the concrete corner, you exhale slowly, the weight of the world suddenly falling on your shoulders alone.

As Lincoln takes the bag from a seedier looking blonde man with a large bruise on his cheek, you inhale a shallow breath, whispering a small “oh god,” just in time for your brother-in-law to turn and make eye contact with you.

This was the end.

This was what was going to break Lexa.

\---

**LINCOLN**

“Son of a bitch Emmerson, I told you not to meet here,” you groan, reaching into your pocket for the cash that you had been holding for far too long. The last week and a half with Bellamy, listening as he lashed out against you and your sister, refusing treatment and refusing his medication, boycotting until you allowed him to talk to Harper were almost unbearable-- especially without your fix.

But this was too risky…

There was too much traffic…

“Jesus Christ Lincoln, don’t text me and tell me it’s urgent if you’re just going to bitch about it later.” The blonde laughs as he speaks, handing you your package and patting you on the shoulder. “After all, you belong to me friend… you meet where I say and when I say…” Emmerson’s voice changes for a moment before you shake your head, clenching your eyes shut as you attempt to rattle the Scourge from your brain.

There was too much traffic…

And too many people who know you…

And that’s when you see her…

Of course Clarke’s here…

Clenching your jaw, you pat Emmerson on the shoulder before turning towards the blonde woman, watching as she scurries around the corner, attempting to hide her involvement…

And that’s when the anxiety begins to grow…

And that’s when the rage begins to grow…

“She can’t know,” the Scourge reminds you, urging you forwards. “She’s going to tell your sister…” His voice is rattling into your soul, clawing at your skin and tearing at your lungs. Your breath trembles and your fists tighten as you approach the corner, turning quickly to find your sister-in-law pretending to not have noticed you.

“Hey Lincoln,” she lies unconvincingly, the panic and fear spreading across her face. It’s only irritating you more-- but let’s be honest… everything is irritating you more these days…

“Shut the fuck up,” you growl at her through your clenched jaw, shoving her against the wall with your right hand while slamming your left fist against the brick behind her just to the left of her face. She trembles, a small gasp escaping her lips while her eyes close as if that will protect her.

“If she tells Lexa,” the Scourge begins from behind you, panic filling his voice as it radiates through your chest.

“Shut up,” you shout to him, Clarke cringing against your voice. “Look,” you point your words at her, even though she never knew she wasn’t the focus of your speech. “If you open your goddamned mouth, I’ll fucking kill you… Do you understand?”

The words coming from your mouth are no longer yours.

They are those of your addiction, and no matter what you try to tell yourself, that’s exactly what it is…

It’s not a habit…

It’s not a thrill…

It’s 100% addiction and with your hands holding your sister-in-law tightly against a brick wall, fear trembling through her as she pushes against you, complaining about you hurting her, there’s no way that you can deny this.

It is addiction.

“Lincoln, you’re hurting the baby,” Clarke complains through the blonde hair that has cascaded itself over her face, hiding the blue eyes that flowed rivers of fear just moments before.

And just like that, you’re back. The Scourge retreats, removing his hands from yours and you realize exactly how tightly he had caused you to grip Clarke. Removing your own hands from her arms, you back away, glances shifting between the red marks on her biceps and the tears that are now racing streaks down her cheeks.

“Oh god,” you mumble, backing away with hands raised in surrender. “I… I’m sorry,” you begin before you notice the Scourge again, shaking his head to remind you of your weakness.

“If she speaks, we’re dead,” he says from beside Clarke, his shadowy fingers pointing towards the panicking blonde.

“If you say anything,” you begin, hesitating just long enough to gather whatever strength you could inside of you.

This was fight or flight now.

There was nothing more to it.

Clarke nods, biting her lip to stifle the small whimper that’s building in her throat.

And with that, you turn away, sprinting around the corner that you came, unable to face her any longer. Your feet are carrying you, but you don’t even know where.

Al you know at this point is that you need to get out…

\---

**CLARKE**

With your back against the wall, you slide to the ground, knees pulled in as close as you can get them over your slightly swollen belly. This was never supposed to happen. As the tears begin to flow down your face, you listen to Lincoln’s footsteps dissipate, allowing your head to fall to your knees. In this spot, you cry for a moment, unable to do anything else.

Just cry.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

After a few moments, you reach your hand into your scrub pocket, taking a deep breath as your fingers trace the corner of your phone. Withdrawing the device, you begin dialing Lexa’s number before the fear returns, stopping you dead in your tracks. With your finger hovering over the send button, Lincoln’s words return to the front of your brain as you hand falls to hold your stomach, feeling for any sign of life or movement inside.

_“If you open your goddamned mouth, I’ll fucking kill you…_

Those were his exact words just minutes before… when he had you and your unborn child pinned against the wall…

Before you can stop it, there’s a small groan that turns into a small scream exiting your lungs and your arm is throwing your phone across the alley way. The glass device meets with the concrete parking structure, shattering on impact with a loud sound that resonates through the back alley, echoing off of the walls that seem to be closing in on you.

You try to breathe in, but air isn’t entering your lungs and before you know it, you’re hyperventilating, unable to lift yourself off of the ground. Minutes pass in what seems like hours as you try your hardest, but can’t seem to pull yourself to your feet.

This is the end…

This is how you die…

Drowning in your own body…

Unable to even suck in air…

That is until the hand reaches out, pulling you to your feet.

Before you know any better, you’re standing face to face with the man who just threatened you with your life as he holds your shoulders in a similar, yet different fashion.

No, this is the end…

A tremble reaches through you, striking your very core as your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” Lincoln mumbles, blinking rapidly through his awkwardness. “I’m getting help,” his thought completes itself as if he’s ready your mind.

Of course he is though…

Everyone’s getting help…

Fuck, if you ask anyone, you’re getting help…

But you stopped therapy after you and Lexa’s last meeting over a month ago.

No one’s ever getting help…

Even if they need it.

But honestly, when you look into his eyes, that couldn’t matter any less.

When you look into his eyes, you see regret…

Remorse…

Resentment…

Without thinking, you dive into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulder and burying your face into his shoulder. “I love you,” you say to your brother through the tears.

And that’s complete truth.

From day 1, Lincoln has been there for you…

From your awkward shufflings in and out of family game nights to marrying his sister, Lincoln has always supported you…

Even when you didn’t support yourself.

And i this moment, nothing else matters…

You love him.

After a small hesitation, he joins you, wrapping his arms around your body and holding you tight. The feeling of his embrace is oddly comforting as you listen to the shudder in his voice when he says “I love you too.”

After all, who are you to judge anyone for their decisions…

It’s not like you’re a saint…

It’s not like any of you are holy…

Once you release your brother, you can’t help but ask the question that has been beating through your lips since you first saw him with that man. “Why?” you ask, hoping he’ll understand through your gasps. You still haven’t regained your breath and standing was enough of a challenge without having to elaborate on your words.

Why are you doing this to yourself?

Why are you doing this to Lexa?

Why are you doing this to Tris?

Why are you doing this to us?

Lincoln purses his lips, his eyes falling to the ground around you. “It’s in my blood,” he says, rolling up his sleeve to remind you of the lyrics tattooed down his forearm.

“Come back on the weekend forever,” you read the words to the song, tracing them with your finger as each letter flees from your tongue. “because you don’t mean to shake that way…”

After all of these years, you never knew what that specific text meant…

And now that you did…

It all made sense…

“Don’t judge yourself by what others did to you.” You begin, holding tight to Lincoln’s arm. “C. Kennedy, Omorphi said that and your sister told me that when I was struggling with my own vices.” He attempts to pull back, but you’re not allowing it, gripping tighter around his forearm with both of your hands. “It’s a constant battle,” you continue, the tears already swelling in your eyes, “but sometimes, you have to ignore what’s inside and do what’s best for all of us…”

There’s the kicker.

There’s the final straw.

Your brother-in-law rips his arm back, causing your hands to fall beside you as his eyes fall to the ground.

“Look,” your words urge him, your hand lifting his chin. “Bellamy told me that sometimes who we are and who we need to be to survive are two different things… maybe your life should be about more than survival… All of ours should be…”

Something in you is screaming to flee.

But something greater is urging you to stay…

To wrap your arms around him again…

To listen to his heart beat and believe that there is something else inside of him…

To do whatever it takes to make this right…

But he’s stopped listening and this was apparent by the look on his face that lingered after your comment about your family.

Lincoln was done discussing this and nothing was going to change that.

As his jaw clenched and unclenched, you place a single hand on his elbow, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I won’t say anything,” you reassure him, distancing your body from him. “But you need to tell them.”

Turning away you don’t wait to see his expression…

Not because you don’t want to…

But because you don’t want him to see yours.

Gathering the pieces of your phone, you shove what remains of the broken device into your scrub pocket before brushing past Lincoln, turning back only once you’ve reached the corner of the wall and disappeared half way behind it. “I’ll give you two weeks,” you add, turning your face to look at him.  “That’s all I can offer.”

His face maintains its direct path to the ground as if he’s examining every atom of the concrete below him. Turning again, you begin walking towards the front of the building before it all comes crashing in again, causing you to go red in the cheeks and lose your balance. Leaning against the wall, the tears come flooding from your eyes, pouring down your cheekbones as your hands find your face.

Where did all of this come from?

How did this all begin?

\---

**LEXA**

_As Costia shifts the jeep into reverse, you swallow deeply, silently congratulating yourself for another day of not getting caught. Each little victory was worth it._

_“So what was this about?” you ask her, pretending to not know as your car turns onto the road. Looking back at the house, you watch as the final light in the corner room goes out, leaving all of the windows in darkness._

_You’ve been there tons of times…_

_You’ve never been inside…_

_Costia’s never asked you to come with her…_

_You’ve always waited in the car…_

_“Just grabbing some things,” your girlfriend mumbles, sliding her hand onto your knee, giving your leg a small squeeze. “Want to go to that party tonight?” she asks you as your thoughts begin finding the darkness lingering in the vehicle. The silence between each of words screams out to you how wrong all of this is…_

_But you don’t care…_

_You love her…_

_And that should be enough._

_“Sure,” you encourage her with a smile, completely ignoring the fact that you still have to finish that paper for your Stats class and you have that test tomorrow at 8am._

_What’s another few hours?_

_As long as you’re with Costia, it’s worth it…_

_She’s worth it…_

_\---_

**CLARKE**

_The red jeep was back…_

_It had been about a week or two since the last time that the red jeep made its way into your and your roommate’s driveway, but every time it did, it was always the same._

_Some overly tiny, bleached blonde woman would stagger her way into your apartment, making loud and crude jokes to your roommate who would then reciprocate._

_Your roommate-- the drug dealer._

_Even though you have only been here a month, you’ve seen this woman more than you’ve seen your own roommate, but yet you’ve never gotten her name. With her thick eye liner and watercolor tattoos, she brings with her an air every time…_

_And every time she leaves, the weight is instantly lifted off of your chest._

_Retreating back into your room, you try to ignore their banter, sliding your ear buds into your ears and returning to your work, studying for the test that Kane is giving you over protocol the next morning. It was 11pm and you had to be at the hospital in 6 hours, but you still weren’t ready…_

_You never felt ready._

_Turning another page in the manual, you exhale slowly, groaning as the smell of pot and incense enters your nostrils, seeping through the cracks in the door and overpowering your eucalyptus candle and Fabreeze air effects. Throwing your body down on the bed that you found yourself, you uncross your legs, groaning loudly again, hoping that they’d hear you._

_But they never did… not over their laughter and loud music._

_Rolling over onto your stomach, you push against your bedsheets, lifting your chest off of the silk to sit on your knees, turning to look out the window into the night._

_That damn red jeep…_

\---

**LEXA**

From the seat beside your brother, you can feel the tension in his shoulders while Octavia’s voice raises slightly. She’s never been one for overreacting, but her stress levels are just as obvious when the words leave her mouth like daggers, poking and prodding at your brother until…

“Will you just shut the fuck up?” Lincoln shouts, leaving his chair quickly to size up next to his tiny wife as all of your family shushes him, urging your brother to reclaim his seat. Octavia stands her ground, unaffected by his sudden aggression. She was never one to back down and, apparently, her new found motherhood didn’t change any of that.

“No,” she speaks matter of factly, her small shoulders rolling as she speaks, sass evident in every word. “I’m just saying, you could stand to stay home for one night.” The brunette crosses her arms and shifts her weight to one side, staring him down through her long, dark hair. “I mean, I’d at least like for Myles to know his fucking father.”

Neither of them are listening to you and your family’s pleas, disregarding the hands tugging at their clothing to pull them back into their chairs around the table as their argument continues, intensifying with each word. Clarke’s boss simple sits at the corner of the table, awkwardly rolling his drink around in his glass as the story unfolds. So much for a fun party…

“This is what you fucking wanted Octavia. You wanted to be a mother more than anything on earth,” Lincoln’s voice mocks, his tone heightening to mimic a high-pitched woman’s voice while his hands rise up into the air in front of his body, waving back and forth wildly. “I didn’t even want fucking kids.”

The room ignites into a unified growl filled with “woah” and “hey” as everyone’s voice lifts up to defend Myles, Lincoln instantly going on the defensive.

And then it happens.

Like a crack of lightning or the sound of a twig snapping, Octavia’s open hand meets the corner of Lincoln’s jaw, sending him sideways briefly before he jolts back, pushing his wife back away from the table and into the end table behind her, sending the contents of it onto the floor with a crash.

For that split second, you couldn’t tell who of you in the room were more surprised, but within that same breath, you found out who was the most angry as Bellamy leapt from his chair, tackling your brother to the floor as the beatings ensued. Their arms flailed wildly for a moment before Bellamy’s found a rhythm, pounding the bass beat against your brother’s face while Lincoln tried his best to simply defend himself, lifting his hands in front of his jaw in an attempt to stop Bellamy’s punches.

Before you know any better, Murphy and Kane are pulling your best friend from your brother, bloody knuckles and swollen lips and all. With a quick push, you shove Bellamy back, catching the curly haired brunette off guard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you shout at him, pushing him again and again until he’s back into the wall, arms up in submission. “He never fucking hit you back!”

And the shock on Bellamy’s face gives it away before his words do. The way in which his eyes focus and refocus on surroundings, shifting rapidly inside of his sockets, his nostrils flaring as his lip twitches and hands tremble tells you all that you need to know. “I don’t… i don’t know what happened….” He begs, glancing at you, then to your brother behind you. “I just…. I can’t…”

“No,” you cut him off, holding a single finger up against him. “Just shut up…” Turning against him, you turn to face your brother who is being doctored by your wife on the floor, his body leaning onto his left elbow while his right arm takes the ice pack from Clarke. “And you… What the fuck Lincoln?” you ask him, your voice raising louder than you thought it could. “What the fuck has been happening with all of you assholes lately?” You turn on your heel, addressing the group as a whole now. Brushing a lock of your hair back, you throw your arms into the air as Bellamy retreats into the back of the house, leaving you alone with everyone else. “I mean are we all going to lose our minds or can we get it the fuck together? Shit!”

After your explosion, everyone attempts to reclaim their seats, trying their hardest to ignore the fact that you just handed them their asses, but it’s not working and this is becoming more and more apparent from the stronghold that you’ve made in the kitchen alone, cradling your drink between both of your hands. As Clarke approaches, you lift a hand, halting her as she opens her mouth to speak.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you say, lifting your drink to your lips.

But Jesus Christ if she isn’t stubborn…

“I was just going to say,” she begins against your groan, a small smile breaking across her lips as you roll your eyes at her. “You need to go talk to him.”

Bellamy…

“He’s being a child,” you grumble, sounding more and more like a child yourself. As you lean against the counter top of Bellamy’s kitchen, Clarke takes a step closer to you, stepping her feet on either side of your right foot, leaning into you and wrapping her arms around your body.

“Yeah,” she says, resting her chin against your shoulder and kissing your neck. “But he’s your best friend… and he’s trying.”

“And what of Lincoln?” you ask, placing your cup down beside you and tossing your arms over the blonde’s shoulders. You pull her close, breathing in the familiar scent of lilac, reminding you of sunshine. Closing your eyes, you can do nothing but see Clarke smiling at you while dragging you into the art gallery on that first weekend.

Even with your eyes closed, she shines bright.

 Her voice interrupts your thoughts, reminding you of the reality of your unforgiving life. “I’ll talk to him,” she says softly, kissing your lips before you open your eyes, nodding to the small woman. “Now go,” she adds, pushing off of you and turning to make her way into the living room and back to the group.

\---

**BELLAMY**

From inside of your bedroom, you can hear every single word that is leaving every single person’s mouth.

It’s like you have a superpower…

Or a curse…

Drawing your legs closer to your chest as the sound of footsteps approaching enters through the crack under the door, you clench your teeth, waiting for the grenades.

It always happens this way now…

You hurt someone…

Every time…

All of the time…

Rocking back and forth gently, you keep a steady rhythm with the pounding in your chest, listening as the breathing on the other side of the door exhales.

“Bell?” Lexa’s voice asks through the wood, the rapping of her knuckles echoing into the silence. Nothing greets her except for the pounding of your heart. Words won’t come-- even if you had anything to say.

After a few seconds of silence, the door opens anyway and she slides her small body inside, closing the wooden door quickly behind herself. Taking her seat next to you, she pulls her blue jean covered knees into her chest like you, pulling down the back of her red v-neck before she turns to face you. “What’s happening up here, buddy?” she asks you, tapping your forehead with two of her fingers.

“I’m so fucked up,” is all you can respond with, your stare staying fixated on the emptiness in front of you. Swallowing deeply, you attempt to say more but simply close your mouth quickly, realizing that nothing is happening.

“We’re all fucked…” she begins. You’re not settling for it though.

She won’t sit here and tell you that every one of you are messed up…

Not when you’ve attacked two members of your family in the last month…

Sure, you all have your own shit…

Murphy is the recovering drug addict…

Lincoln is overly aggressive…

Octavia drinks too much…

Clarke had the problems with eating habits…

Lexa had enough scars for all of you…

But you…

You were a whole nother work of art…

“Just stop,” you interrupt her, lifting your hands to cover your face, rubbing your eyes with your fingertips. “Fucking stop with this ‘you’re just like us’ game that you keep trying to play, Lex. It’s not working anymore.” You sigh, her breathing joining you as you exhale deeply. “Yeah, we’re all fucked up, but I’m the only monster in this group…”

“I don’t believe that,” Lexa chuckles, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. “I mean, Stephen King said ‘Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.’ Maybe yours are willing more these days…” you snort a laugh. “But soon, mine will win more than not… and sadly Clarke’s will win… and  Jasper’s… and Tris’… All of us will lose to the devil eventually.”

You take a deep breath, turning your head to face her for the first time since she entered the room. “Oscar Wilde said ‘We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell’,” you say to her, watching as she bites her lip while she thinks, her eyes scanning the room as if she can pull the words that she’s searching for from the air.

A slow smiled spreads across her face before she begins speaking, eyes staying fixated into the sky then slowly lowering to you. “’What makes the earth feel like Hell is our expectation that it ought to feel like Heaven.’ Chuck Palahniuk from the book Damned,” she rebuts, nudging you with her shoulder. “I think I win,” she adds, causing a smile to break across your lips.

“Fuck off,” you chuckle, nudging her back before you wrap and arm around her shoulder. “Have you heard Stay Awhile?” you ask, pulling your phone from your pocket with the other hand. When she shakes her head, you sigh slowly, scrolling through the library of music saved to your small device. “Here,” you finally say after several moments, clicking play and laying the phone down on the carpet below you.

The guitar strums offer little support and comfort and when the piano and violin join in, you may as well have offered Erick Baker a sword to thrust into your chest.

_Hell on earth ain't hard to find, but you can save me from mine. Stop the time's bayonet from stabbing all that's delicate._

Lexa lays her head on your shoulder and you shift to accommodate her easier, wrapping your arm tighter around her to keep her from falling as the words continue to break into you.

_I won't be afraid of growing old if I have your hand to hold. I'm looking for eternity. Will you find it with me?_

And when the chorus begins, you can already feel the tears making their paths down your cheeks. Why is it so easy to find the words that you want to say to her when others have already spoken them?

_Please, stay awhile. Show me how to smile. Please, stay awhile_

It’s like you didn’t even try. You let her get into that car with Clarke and that was the end of it.

_I am not a great man but I'll give you all I can. I'll be the lashes on your eyes; Catch every tear that you cry._

And it’s not like you deserved her forgiveness-- you definitely didn’t, and still don’t… but you could have at least tried.

_Please, stay awhile. Show me how to smile. Please, stay awhile._

And you could still be trying…

_Let's fill this room with empty coffee cups so we don't ever have to go to sleep, because if I close my eyes, I fear tomorrow won't let this day repeat._

But instead, it’s been weeks and you’ve done nothing but let her think that she doesn’t matter… that you’re going on fine without her…

_My life's been filled with turned out lights haunted by the hurt of closing doors. Let's turn the locks and lose the keys. I don't want them open anymore._

But you’re not… and she does matter…

_Well I see you in an antique wedding gown and me slowly walking down the aisle. Can you see us now? And won't you be the mother of my child? I can see you every time she smiles. I love your smile._

And that’s when it hits you…

_So please, stay awhile._

You have to fix this.

\---

**CLARKE**

Once your wife passes through the room, you immediately turn your attention to Lincoln who sits on the couch next to you, ice pack pressed firmly to his swelling jaw. “Look,” he begins, removing the ice pack as he speaks. You push his hand back against his face, smiling slightly as he cringes against the impact. “I know,” he tries to speak again, moving the pack that you push back again.

“Shut up,” you say to him, placing a hand against his, applying more pressure. Something inside of you is getting enjoyment from the slight pain that you’re causing him, but that’s what he deserves. “You know you fucked up, right?” you continue, your fingers tracing the cuts and bruising already forming across the bridge of his nose and lining his cheek bones. He simply nods. “Okay, so don’t do this alone… let us help you…”

Before you can continue with your speech, Lincoln shrugs your hand away, lowering the icepack into your lap and standing. “Look Clarke, I don’t need your charity,” he says to you, brushing off the front of his pants. “You don’t have to try to fix me.”

“I don’t want to fix you,” you defend yourself, standing to match him. All of the other game night goers have either left after the fight or are crowded in the kitchen talking about mixed drinks and movies. It’s just you and Lincoln now, making this the perfect time for this conversation…

But this conversation was not going as planned.

Fuck…

What ever goes as planned?

“Yeah, like how you don’t want to fix Lexa so you dance around the truth with her?” he argues back, turning to face you square on. “That’s why you didn’t tell her right?”

“No,” you choke on your own lie before it even leaves your mouth. Glancing down, you brush back a lock of your hair while saying “I just…”

But he’s relentless…

He always has been…

“You want? You want to protect her?”

“Yes…”

“From what?” he asks, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, if you’re not fixing her, what are you doing Clarke?” You can’t respond. You don’t have an answer. “You can’t protect us Clarke… You’re not god.”

And with that, Lincoln left, closing the door behind him after he laid it all out there for you…

The truth that you’ve been running from your entire life…

You can’t fix anything….

You can’t protect anyone…

You can’t save anyone…

You are not god.

 


	9. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go... August.
> 
> With the year end approaching, we've got a lot of ground to cover so I hope you're ready for longer chapters with tons of twists and turns.
> 
> Sorry it's taken so long. Life exploded again and between working entirely too much, not sleeping nearly enough, and finding no drive to do anything but exist, i needed a break for a moment before I continued on...  
> but here it is... August... please accept this 13, 570 word apology :-)
> 
> I promise things do get better, but we're just going through a rough patch. and get ready for more flashbacks :-)
> 
> leave me comments and let me know what you think!
> 
> check out the playlist: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4
> 
> and add me on tumblr so we can chat and become friends. I enjoy posting quotes from it while I'm writing and making people squirm: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

**LEXA**

Thank god for August. Few things brought the same degree of excitement as did August.

First, there was Maya’s birthday on the 2nd, and although Maya was never the most active or invigorating part of your life, you owed her the word-- especially after how good she had been to you and your family during Clarke’s hospitalization. Sure, she was struggling too-- she was watching a sister fade away just like everyone else, but instead of taking off of work, she stayed, maintaining her post at the hospital, taking on extra cases, and making sure to be with Clarke and you every moment she could. She busted her ass to make everyone as comfortable as possible and she deserved the world-- even if she never asked for it.

Her birthday was just as calm and collected as she had always been. The night began and ended at the same location with dinner and conversation over a few drinks. You had never seen Maya extremely drunk-- a fact that bewildered you to the point of bringing it up when you were at the restaurant. There was a reason for this, you would later find out on the cab ride home with Clarke. Maya’s father, although the nicest human being to walk the earth, drank himself into liver failure at an early age after the death of his wife, a war reporter, at the hands of political extremists during a humanitarian aid event in Lebanon, leaving Maya to put herself through nursing school and to learn to be an adult overnight. For this reason and this reason alone, Maya had a limit which was strongly enforced and appreciated. After years of interaction, it finally became apparent-- even during games of Kings and shot nights with the family, Maya had a degree of self-control that the rest of you could only joke about… and something about that was beautiful-- everything about that was beautiful.

August 9th was Harper’s birthday and even though there was a perpetual discourse inside of you due to the whole falling out that was still occurring between Bellamy and the wonderful, kind, considerate blonde who was still taking refuge in your guest bedroom, you couldn’t help but be happy for her-- especially after waking up to homemade waffles from your wife-- much against Bellamy’s warning, you allowed her to learn to cook and she managed to only burn down parts of the kitchen. The rest of the day progressed exactly as you would expect with your family. Both you and Clarke mysteriously had the day off (which you weren’t complaining about after having worked literally 15 days in a row before then) and did absolutely nothing but order in Chinese food (Harper’s call) and lounge on the couch in front of Netflix with your new adopted roommate while she argued about how much she needed to find a new place to stay. With claims of putting you out and disturbing the balance of your home, the girl was completely full of shit and you and Clarke couldn’t do anything but laugh as you urged her to stay, knowing that you needed her as much as she needed you at this moment. Even if they couldn’t work through everything, you couldn’t let her leave… because you knew, deep down inside, if she walked out now, she’d never come back… and that couldn’t happen to your family. You couldn’t break. The rest of the day was filled with people coming and going, tracking muddy footprints through your entryway and bringing with them the festivities in the form of cheap beer and fruity drinks-- Harper’s favorite. Before you knew any better, after a few phone calls and some more bottles of Jagger, your house was hosting an impromptu Sunday night family game night which everyone was in attendance… everyone except for Bellamy.

And that little fact made things harder when August 15th rolled around and brought Bellamy’s birthday with it. It would have been easy to ask Bellamy to host the event at his place, but the day snuck up on you and before you knew it, Saturday game night at your house was already in full swing and you were drafted into the role of world’s most awkward host. Scurrying around, you attempted to buffer the situation left and right, but when Harper disappeared, it became blaringly obvious-- you were failing.

“Harps?” you ask through the crack that you were forming in the doorway, pushing the door as your head pokes itself into the bedroom. Through the noise of the party behind you, you can still hear the sounds of retching and heaving from the connected bathroom, the steam pouring from the door while the shower head pounds water against the tile below it. It’s a symphony of some of your worst fears. Taking a deep breath, you push your way through entirely, closing the door behind you. “Harper?” you ask again, this time a little louder.

It’s all too reminiscent of the struggles you’ve seen too much of.

It reminds you too much of Clarke.

“Yeah?” your friend chokes through her words, flushing the toilet as she speaks. “I’m fine. Sorry.” You don’t even know what she’s apologizing for and the terror building up in your chest forces you to wonder if she knows either?

As you turn the corner, the sight of your friend on the bathroom floor in only her sports bra and boy shorts makes you tremble, again, forcing you to relive some of Clarke’s darkest moments.

_It wasn’t the first time that you found her broken. It wasn’t the first time that you pulled her from the cold tile, but it also wasn’t the last time that you felt this fear. With tears running down her cheeks, her elbow resting on the toilet seat in its vain attempts to hold her exhausted head up, she stammers through her words, the smell of vomit greeting your entrance. The shudder that exits her lips as they tremble against the air is enough to bring you to your knees-- but even that doesn’t stop your forward steps._

_“Leave me alone,” Clarke drones, her voice nearly silent against the sound of the shower counting a cadence against the inside of the tub. “I just need you to go.”_

_“I can’t do that,” you reply, taking a seat next to her nearly naked frame. You push her clothes away, sliding closer to her so you take her in your arms. “I don’t want to let you go.”_

_She trembles at your touch, your fingertips erupting goosebumps across her skin, rippling at every pore. “Why not?” she begs, her shoulder attempting to push you away even when her tone pleads you to pull her closer. The smell of her stomach contents on her hands is restricting, forcing your shallow breaths, but nothing could push you from this moment. She needed you here…_

_You needed to be here._

_“Because I love you,” you reply with a small snort, resting your head on her shoulder. “And that means staying.”_

_It was control._

_Everything to Clarke was control._

_And it’s something that she can’t let go of._

But this was different.

A different place.

A different time.

A different face.

And as you slide in next to Harper, pushing her clothes out of the way to take a seat immediately to her right, you’re reminded of this, the words stumbling from her trembling lips. “Don’t go there,” she begs, her forehead resting against the corner of the toilet seat. “I’m not bulimic,” she says, the words not having any effect on you until she bites the conclusion of “like Clarke.” While you’re biting back your own rebuttle, ready to take arms against your friend to defend your wife, the realization must have hit her like a freight train as she jerks her head up, throwing her hands in front of her lips with a gasp. “I’m so sorry,” she groans, closing her brown eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that…”

The small grin cutting into your cheeks allows her the forgiveness that she’s seeking as she lays her head back down, a small tremble racing down her back, the ripples forming in its wake. You’ve never really noticed Harper’s design before. It had never really crossed your mind that she must have been attractive…

Well, you knew she was… Let’s be honest-- all of Clarke’s friends were… All of your friends were… but you never really wondered what Harper looked like underneath her layers. You knew that she ran track in high school, often getting lost in her and Clarke’s conversations about dashes and sprints, but you never really processed the fact that Harper was fit.

Hell, you had seen Octavia completely naked almost as many times as you had seen yourself, and even the free running, weight lifting beast that was your sister-in-law had nothing on Harper’s muscle tone and definition.

That explains all of the protein powder bottles and power green packages in the trash can.

“I never thought you were,” you lie to her, chuckling as your hand finds her bare knee.

“You’re a dirty liar,” she mumbles through her own laugh, not moving her head. Her hands wring circles in her lap as you give her leg a squeeze, silently reassuring her that everything is fine…

Even if it’s not.

“I heard his voice,” she explains to you, not needing to say anything else.

You remember all too well what it’s like to crumble.

You remember all too well what it’s like so break apart at the seams.

You remember all too well what it’s like to be the one to walk away and instantly feel the weight of every bad or every wrong decision that you’ve made.

“Yeah,” you groan, the word drawing out against your breath. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

She lifts her head at last, those striking brown eyes meeting yours. “It’s not your fault,” she says to you, a small smile spreading from the left corner of her mouth. “He’s your family. I have to handle myself better. I’m a mess.”

“We’re all a mess,” you laugh, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

There’s a small silence between you two as you listen to the festivities outside, pinpointing each voice in the crowd. Jasper and Monty are chanting something from the kitchen, begging for others to join in. Lincoln’s loud voice is explaining away something to Bellamy who is clearer than anyone else when he speaks.

Of course he is the loudest.

And of course she can hear him.

“It’s okay to be broken,” you say to her at last. “Have you ever heard of Ariana Dancu?” She shakes her head against you with a sigh. “She wrote one single poem that became big on the internet. I’ve searched for more of her stuff, but none of it compares.” As you speak, you see Harper’s eyes begin to trail off, distancing herself from you with each word. Taking her hand in yours, you begin to speak again, drawing her back in. “She made broken look beautiful and strong look invincible. She walked with the Universe on her shoulders and made it look like a pair of wings.”

She laughs while speaking her reply, patting your knee with one hand while the other wipes the unshed tears from her eyes. “Save your words for someone with grace.”

“I did,” you reply with your own laughter, withdrawing your hand from her leg. She freezes in place, staring you down before laughing even more.

“Oh my god, you’re just like him,” she groans with a small chuckle. You nod, knowing that there’s nothing that you can say to argue that point. “So how did you do it?” she asks you after a moment of laughter between you two.

“Do what?” you ask with your head cocked to the side, eyebrows raised.

“Walk away?”

Biting your lip for a moment, you think long and hard about the next two words that come out of your mouth… and really, there’s no other way to explain it.

“I died.”

\---

**CLARKE**

August 31st . Finally, the day had come. This one, specific Saturday that you had been waiting for all year.

Your birthday.

It wasn’t even really that you enjoyed your birthday-- that was you and your father’s thing. The days of early morning wake-ups, pancakes with strawberries and whipped crème, skipping school to go to the movies and hang out with the people who loved you most had ended with the crack of a Sig-Sauer outside of Vermont Vista…

But that didn’t seem to stop Lexa.

No, she was determined to bring birthdays back to their former glory for you and if the past couple of years of your life had taught you anything, it’s that she was going to stop at nothing to make sure that you had a day devoted solely to you…

And this year was no exception.

Opening your eyes slowly, you cringe against the light from the outside world dancing through the blinds and into your once safe, dark cave. Groaning loudly into the air, you roll over to where Lexa sleeps, throwing your arm across the empty space that once held the woman you love, the roll of blankets and the pillow greeting you instead. Lifting your head, you glance around the room, taking it all in.

Nothing had changed.

There weren’t any balloons-- last year’s trademark.

There was no smell of burning food or shouts from the kitchen to wake you from your slumber-- the year before’s anthem.

And yet…

There was still something…

Lifting your head a slight bit more, you glance over at the clock, the red numbers alerting you that you not only slept in but literally slept away over half of the day as they switch to 12:24 in front of you. Jesus Christ, you’ve never slept this late…

Except for that one time…

_“What the hell did you order?” you grumble, tugging the oversized box through the door at the only angle that will work. Dropping it quickly onto the floor, you instantly regret even trying to bring it in as the sound of the weighted cardboard against the newly laid concrete tile echoes through the walkway, bringing Lexa sprinting down the hallway into the entrance with you, terror written across her face._

_You can’t help but laugh at how quickly she responds to every little thing these days. You cough and she is already scheduling a doctor’s appointment for you. You complain of a small chest pain or cramping and she’s ready to pack up for the E.R. Without a doubt, Lexa doesn’t know how to handle your pregnancy and every time you even think about lifting something or bending over, she’s riding up your asshole about how you should be resting and taking care of yourself._

_And when she finally comes down from the instant fear that you had been crushed by whatever dead body sized package she ordered, she takes a breath to tell you about the box on your floor. “You’re going to love this!” your brunette wife is practically shouting through the layers of her hair as it cascades in front of her face, her hands clawing at the cardboard below._

_“Am I actually going to love this or is this going to be like that terrible museum trip you took me to in Vermont?” you ask with a smile, your wife not even hearing you. When she has finally ripped away all of the tape, the tube of a box unrolls itself, a massive sheet of foam unrolling with it to cover the entirety of the walkway. “What the ever-loving shit is it?” you can’t help but ask as you circle the mysterious pad like a vulture._

_Lexa smiles, standing and taking you in her arms. “Memory foam,” she replies, kissing your shoulder._

_Rolling over into your wife’s arms was like rolling around on a cloud the next morning…_

_Rolling over into the sunlight was not however…_

_Especially when you both had to be at work before dawn…_

_“Fuck!” you scream, pushing your already bloating body from the bed while simultaneously shoving Lexa deeper into the cloud of a mattress topper, her grumbles singing out into the silence of the well-lit bedroom._

_“What?” she asks before her eyes begin focusing on her surroundings. “Shit,” she joins in the slew of profanities, throwing her body upright while reaching for her phone. ‘What the fuck happened?”_

_You had alarms set._

_In fact both of you had multiple alarms set…_

_All of which had been ignored…_

_For over 9 hours…_

_“Goddamnit, I’ve gotta go,” you begin to shout, running around the room to gather your clothes and work supplies that were scattered about from your day off. “I’m so fucking late right now….”_

_But Lexa silences you, taking your body in her arms as you pass and holding you tight, her warm morning breath on your shoulder as she speaks. “Babe, we’re already toast for the day,” she explains, pulling your phone up in front of your face to show you the text from you mother._

**_Momma (6:27AM):_ ** _So you’re already over 2 hours late… I’m going to assume that you’re just asleep and not worse. Told Kane you’re sick… Call me when you wake up or I’m going to actually murder you and the daughter that I chose, okay?_

_You snort a small laugh as you take the phone from her hand, typing out a quick message to your mother while Lexa reaches for her phone. “I’ve got my threat too,” she laughs, showing you her phone which reads something very similar message from your mother. “Looks like we’ve got the day off.”_

_Smiling over at your wife, you open your mouth to speak, watching the smile spread across her lips thinly. “Stay in bed?” you ask, moving her hands from your stomach to your hips, tightening your fingers into hers. She grips tighter on your hipbones, as the small tinge of self-conscious anxiety builds._

_They weren’t as obvious anymore and even though you were only three months pregnant now, the weight had already began appearing and your shape had already began changing._

_All that hard work…_

_All that control…_

_Disappearing…_

_Smiling anyway, you turn into her, wrapping your arms around her neck and pulling her into your lips. “Thank god,” she replies after her lips meet yours. Her right hand scales up the side of your body, dancing her fingertips across the skin peeking through your tank before it rests itself on your cheek, cupping the side of your face gently. “I’ve missed you.”_

And now, three months later, you sit up, still thankful for Lexa’s choice in memory foam as you feel the mattress topper contour around your legs, holding you when she can’t.

It’s quiet…

Scanning the room again, you look for the tell-tale signs of Lexa’s birthday festivities…

No balloons…

No cards…

No rose petals or breakfast in bed or anything…

Maybe she forgot?

Fuck Clarke, Lexa never forgets anything…

But maybe something happened?

Could she have gotten called into work?

Why would she just leave without saying goodbye?

With your heart sinking a little more with each second, you listen to the silence filling your house around you. Normally you could hear activity in the kitchen.

Nothing.

Normally you could hear Harper in the shower down the hall.

Nothing.

Normally you could hear the television on the other end of the house.

Nothing.

In fact, the silence and the stillness in your home echoed the silence and stillness that was still causing panic inside of your body. It’s 5 months into your pregnancy and you still can’t feel the baby moving. In spite of everything that the doctors’ say and every article that Lexa finds on the internet and all of your training, you can’t help the dread that fills you every day knowing that your little one is there and you can’t hear them.

It just doesn’t seem right…

Just like today…

Taking a deep breath, you exhale darkness, watching as the thick cloud of depression lingers in front of your face, reminding you of everything.

Your cheekbones are less defined.

Your jaw is more rounded.

You stomach is no longer toned.

Your hip bones no longer stick out as they should.

The numbers on the scale that Lexa is still unaware exists in your house have been slowly increasing and you’ve done everything that you could while still giving your baby what they need…

But nothing is working…

You’re losing control…

And just like that, just like all of the other things in your life, you lose control again, feeling the dread as it rises up your throat, gagging you into submission. Bolting quickly, your feet barely touching the floor before you find yourself on the tile, clenching tightly to the corners of the toilet bowl while the contents of your stomach fill the toilet violently. Heaving against the air in your chest, you continue to puke as tears start streaming down your face.

You’ve almost forgotten this feeling…

You’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to maintain control...

When nothing else is within your grasp…

At least there’s this…

\---

**LEXA**

As Clarke stumbles her way through the house, you try to bite back the smile already forming on your lips. So far, everything is running according to plan. Everyone is doing a great job acting like they’ve all forgotten Clarke’s birthday when, in fact, the reservations at the Colombian place that you were supposed to go on your first… date? Was that the word for what happened when Clarke broke your nose and you began falling in love with her? Is that what that day was? A date? In any instance, the two of you had managed to go all of this time and still not make it to the restaurant…

But that was going to change today…

And everyone was going to be with you.

Shuffling into the living room where she finds you curled up on the couch with book in hand, your wife throws her body onto the loveseat across from you, pulling her legs into her chest.

“Good morning,” you laugh, checking the watch on your arm. “I mean, I guess good afternoon,” the correction comes as she continues to stare at the floor, exhaustion written across her cheekbones in the form of shadows and bruising. “Are you okay?”

Clarke nods, her eyes still fixated on the floor below. She shuffles, loosening her grip on her legs so that her fingers meet, her nails picking at the skin on her finger tops as she blinks quickly, bringing her eyes up to meet yours. “I’m just tired,” she mumbles, looking at the air around you, refusing to focus in on you.

Maybe a surprise party isn’t the best idea….

“Well, can I take you to dinner?” you ask subtly, hoping that you aren’t giving away too much detail. Octavia made it very clear-- this was to absolutely be a surprise. If Clarke was to find out, the short, warrior girl would have your head, and honestly, you couldn’t give her that pleasure. Clarke’s silent nod forces you to close the book in your hands, placing it on the floor beside you as you remove your glasses, tossing them down onto the floor as well. “Come here,” you say, patting the space beside you.

As Clarke crawls herself between you and the back of the couch, you can feel the weight of the world on her shoulders. It’s as if she’s brought the cloud with her, dragging it on a leash behind her as a constant reminder of her struggles.

Has she always been this heavy?

Or is this new?

“What’s wrong?” you ask as the blonde lays a head on your shoulder, your fingers brushing hair from her face while she inhales deeply. There’s a pause as she is clearly running through the words in her head.

And you do the same, pondering all of the things that it could be.

Honestly, you have no clue…

It could be anything…

And it could be nothing…

“I’m just tired,” she lies, covering it with a small, fake yawn and returning her head to your shoulder.

You kiss the top of her head, resting one hand on her shoulder while the other holds her at her stomach, feeling for any movement of your little one inside. With a small kick and a smile across your lips, you decide to take Clarke at face value.

Who are you to belittle her exhaustion while she’s carrying your child?

Who are you to question her when she tells you that everything is fine?

\---

**CLARKE**

You almost wish that Lexa would push the matter…

But you don’t…

And you’re thankful when she lets it go…

Because let’s be honest, how do you tell her that her brother is doing drugs, you’re unable to find any connection to the child that you’re carrying, and that you’re feeling like relapse at any moment?

You can’t….

And you won’t…

\---

**OCTAVIA**

 Rushing around the city in preparation for Clarke’s birthday gave you the perfect amount of time that you needed to think…

Actually, you were doing everything except for preparing at this point…

And strangely enough, you were okay with this.

While Maya watched your son, you were able to go for a fun for the first time in weeks and not have to worry about whether or not you would be home in time for Lincoln to get to work. With the concrete against the bottoms of your feet and the feeling of the wind against your face, you darted across the town, through alley ways and over fences as if nothing was too high for you…

And it wasn’t.

Allowing your instinct to take over you simply ran, turning corners without thought and not even bothering to map out your return trip. That was until you turned the corner onto Broad Street and bumped into a large body, shoving your own to the ground as the man stumbled across his own feet.

“Excuse me,” he mumbles in a voice that almost sounds familiar enough to remember as a hand reaches out to help you up. Whether it was the shock of the moment or just your absolute desire to not see him standing in front of you, it took you a few seconds to process the figure before you.

Brown eyes…

Dark black hair…

Chubby cheeks but still strangely defined jaw line…

Slightly crooked nose from where your fist met with its bridge almost 5 years ago…

“Finn,” you mumble as he lifts you to your feet, your eyes never leaving his.

“Octavia?” the man questions, confirming your worst fears in this moment.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He was supposed to be gone forever.

He wasn’t allowed to come back.

Especially not today.

“How have you been?” The forced smile across his lips makes it apparent that he remembers your last meeting, the strain in his voice giving away the stress building inside of him.

And it should be. He destroyed your best friend, leaving her broken on the floor with nothing else to do except struggle for control in the only way that she knew how…

He was the main source of Clarke’s baggage…

And he wasn’t allowed to be here…

Especially not today…

\---

**BELLAMY**

**Little Sister (3:32PM):** We’ve got big trouble

Octavia’s overdramatics for today were becoming exhausting. It’s not like your tiny sister hasn’t already sent you after at least $200 worth of art supplies, a metric fuck-ton of balloons, and the helium for the balloons and texted you to confirm the reservations at least 38 times, but now this? For fuck’s sake Clarke has had birthdays before and she’ll have plenty more of them if you have anything to say about it, but this text…

This text seemed different…

Even if it was pretty much the same words that you encountered on every turn of this surprise-party-planning-adventure.

Exhaling deeply, you slide the bag of paint brushes under your arm, gripping your phone with both hands as you type gently, your eyes glancing up from your screen occasionally to the road in front of you.

 **Bellamy (3:34PM):** What now? The caterer bailed? You act like you’re planning your wedding all over again…

You chuckle to yourself knowing that your sister won’t find the joke as funny as you did… I mean, she was the actual devil reincarnate for her own wedding and it only got worse for Lexa and Clarke’s.

 **Little Sister (3:37PM):** Shut up.

 **Little Sister (3:37PM):** 1 file attached

Sighing as you reach your truck, you pull the door open by the overly warm handle. The heat pours from the leather interior in waves, exiting the truck just in time to slam you in the face like a train rolling down the tracks. There was no stopping it. As the sweat beads up just over your upper lip, you can’t help but exhale slowly, dreading the end of summer.

Summer was your weather.

Summer meant heat and warmth and t-shirts and the outdoors. Until recently, summer meant hikes with Harper and camping in the woods, holding her tightly until she kicked you away in her sleep, shoving her sweating foot into your hip bone to push your body out from under the thin sheet.

Winter meant something completely different…

Where summer meant warmth and sunlight… winter meant cold and darkness.

Where summer meant growth and tranquility… winter meant stagnancy and chaos.

Where summer was like meeting Clarke for the first time and having Lexa walk into your apartment and watching your family flourish and grow… winter meant listening to the sounds of a respirator and waiting for the day that you got a phone call that the fight was over.

Where summer meant happiness… winter was sorrow…

And nothing would change that…

It was in your bones…

It was in your DNA…

Sliding into your seat in the truck, you sit with your foot dangling out of the door, the tips of your boot covered toes barely grazing the hot, black asphalt below as your fingers glide across the screen, clicking accept and waiting for Octavia’s picture to load. Surely she was over exaggerating-- just like everything else today.

It was probably something like the restaurant not serving a specific dish….

Or Myles’ babysitter bailing…

Or something ridiculous.

Or it was the face of the man who you spent months picking your roommate off of the floor over…

The face of the man who said that he couldn’t be with Clarke because she cared too much for others…

The face of the man who shattered her and left her broken for all of you to deal with in the wake of his destruction…

Or it was the face of Finn Collins, clean shaven with short hair, scar lining his jaw and lips smiling while his eyes just stared.

There’s no way this is happening today.

With your finger migrating over the letters, you type before you even realize what you’re saying, begging your sister to leave.

There’s no way this is happening.

 **Bellamy (3:44PM):** Where are you?

 **Little Sister (3:45PM):** Coffee and chocolate, come.

And that’s all you needed.

That’s all you wanted.

Your sister begging you to save her from the only person that you’ve ever heard the name of mumble from her lips in the same sentence as the word ‘hate’.

Come.

That’s all you really needed.

Typing as you turn the keys in the ignition, you finally pull your foot inside, finally releasing the summer ground below as you slam the truck door shut, silencing the radio quickly before pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main street.

 **Bellamy (3:46PM):** 5 minutes

\---

**OCTAVIA**

It didn’t take much for you to lose interest in this conversation. Listen to Finn carry on about his conquests in Kazakhstan and how tracking in the desert is different than tracking in the woods was completely out of your league-- not because of the complexity…

But simply because you didn’t give a damn.

Honestly, he sounds like one of the parents in some kind of cartoon show where the kid zones out. All you hear in his words is something along the lines of ‘whomp whomp whomp I crushed your best friend’s heart whomp whomp. I’m an asshole whomp whomp…’

It’s taken everything in you to not get up and leave by now, and your emotional reserve was running low by the time you saw Bellamy’s truck glide into the parking lot, coming to a final stop in the second spot from the door.

Losing your resolve at the sight of your savior brother, you stand quickly from the table below, almost taking your chair and the contents of the small, round, wooden slab with you. As your arms find their way around your brother’s neck and you whisper a small ‘thank you’ into his ear, he pulls you back into your chair, taking the seat between you and Finn.

“Hey there Collins,” Bellamy says with a small smile cracked across his cheek bones.

Not now…

Lord please, not now…

\---

**CLARKE**

After all of the sleeping you had already done, you didn’t think you could possibly be tired…

That was until you woke up in a puddle of your own droll on Lexa’s chest, surrounded by the soft, leveled breathing of your wife. Her arms were wound tightly around you, fingers gripping to the book whose pages engulfed your shoulder in a blanket of paper and ink. Glancing down at the title, you take in the gold letters against the green binding as your eyes focus gently after a few blinks. _The General In His Labyrinth_. That’s a new one that has yet to glide across your coffee table in Lexa’s frail attempts to find time to read anymore. With school staring back in a week, she’s been cramming in books like she was getting paid for it. Between Nova Express by William S. Burroughs, and Stiff by Mary Roach… from Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut to Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle… and The Stranger by Albert Camus to The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, your library in the living room of your house had now begun pouring from the shelves onto smaller stacks surrounding it, outlining the wood floor beneath as if you were too eclectic for carpet. In fact, when Lexa refused to buy another shelf and you refused to turn the spare room into an office of sorts, you began making to small, sarcastic quips by placing picture frames and potted plants on the stacks. Admittedly, it was kind of cute, but you could never let her know that…

Smiling as you take in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of vanilla which you had grown so accustomed to over the last couple of years, you exhale slowly, burying your face back into her chest and listening to her heart pulsate through her ribcage.

No matter what, this was always constant.

And as you take another breath, suddenly the poking from inside your belly surfaces, the feeling like a foot jabbing between your ribs which makes you gasp, pushing a hand delicately to your stomach.

A kick.

The first sign of movement that you’ve ever felt.

The first real signs of life inside of you.

“You okay?” the groggy, sleeping voice of your wife jolts you back into the reality around you. Biting down on your lower lip, you fight back the smile as best you can, that is until her eyes meet yours, those gold flecks bouncing against her dark pupils while she glances between your two eyes. Her lips purse slightly as she pokes her tongue between them, biting down on her lower lip before she chuckles against your stare.

That’s when you lose it.

That chuckle.

That small laugh that accompanied every joke of yours, no matter how dumb.

That small laugh that carried you through terrible and uncomfortable dinner dates with your mother and work parties where you were forced to socialize with people who you honestly didn’t even care for.

That small laugh that would ring through your entire house, dispelling the silence and loneliness that sometimes found its way to you.

That small laugh that you fell in love with and that small laugh that loved you back.

Taking the book from Lexa, your hand grazes the top of hers, sending electricity through your bones as the warmth of her fingers spreads across your cold hands. She was always so warm. “What’s this one?” you ask, skimming the pages while your right thumb holds the place where she fell asleep at. The words zoom past your face with each turn of the stained, old paper, the smell of a used bookstore attacking your sinuses with the air pushed from between the parchment. Honestly, you’re not even attempting to read the text-- based off of the design of the book, you can tell it’s not even up your alley.

Classics were always Bellamy’s thing…

His and Lexa’s.

Lexa snorts another laugh, her fingers finding yours and taking the book from your hand, closing it while she slides her body upright, you slicing into her lap without effort. Wrapping your arms around her shoulders, you hold tightly as if you’ll fall away at any moment-- as if she’ll disappear. “It’s about a Venezuelan military leader who became president of much of Central America… I think.” She cringes slightly, her lips tugging at their left corner as she almost whispers, “I’m having trouble getting into this one.” Continuing with her explanation of how Bellamy required her to read this book, you zone out on the details… There’s only so many times that you can hear the same story from one of them or the other about how this book changed their lives and they found it absolutely necessary that the other read it.

It never worked how they planned.

Rarely did they agree on books-- in spite what they told the other…

And then there was you, caught in the crossfire of settings and story lines that you didn’t understand while you take the mortar fire from both sides, absorbing it like it’s nothing by ignoring words and simply losing yourself into your own mind.

Honestly, you’ve become quite good at it over the years.

“I go to see a great perhaps,” Lexa finally finishes, quoting the text as she closes the book again, tossing it on the floor below. “I mean, parts of it hit really hard, that’s for sure, but overall… I’m just sifting through his over-attention to details and the dominant forces at play in Bolivar’s personality.”

Thinking for a moment, you take in the silence surrounding you before you turn your eyes back to your wife. “What is the great perhaps?” you ask her, the fire igniting in her eyes.

It was evident that she loved talking with you about these things…

Even if it was sometimes torture for you.

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” she begins, her thumb stroking the skin peeking through the side of your tank top. As her thumb slides under the shoulder strap of the shirt, a chill runs through your spine, tracing every line and every spot of the back tattoo that you forget that you have. Just like everything else in this life, it’s become so constant that you forget that it’s there…

Until moment’s like this.

“I don’t get it,” you say to her, not really caring but rather simply enjoying her excitement and the feeling of her fingers against your skin.

She smiles, kissing your forehead while she moves her hands to hold you around your stomach. Placing her two hands on either side of your swollen belly, she cups your stomach gently, stroking the top of your tank top with her thumbs as her fingers drum a slight rhythm with them. “This is my great perhaps,” she whispers into your hair, kissing the bottom of your ear with a slight nibble. “This is what I want to spend every day chasing.”

“And what if you catch it?” you ask as your breathing catches, the warmth spreading from her finger tips through your entire body.

God damn it.

She always knows exactly how to breathe.

Exactly how to speak.

Exactly what to do.

Since day one…

She’s always known.

Taking another breath, you tremble your exhale through her words as her lips skate across your neck, her fingers tangling themselves through your hair to move it from her way. You reach your own hands down, gripping tightly to her bare thighs beneath you as your nails dig gently into her skin. “Then we’ll just have to start all over again on another great perhaps, won’t we?”

The jittery feeling in your chest surges through your arms when Lexa bites down on your shoulder, her hands migrating to your hips to pull you tighter against her. Your small moan of affirmation is all that you have to offer her before you turn over, turning into her grasp and pushing your lips against hers.

She always knows exactly how to breathe.

Exactly how to speak.

Exactly what to do.

Since day one…

She’s always known.

\---

**BELLAMY**

It would have been all too easy to allow your sister to meet you in the parking lot, but the way that this man stumbled through his words and trembled as his hand met yours in a weak wristed hand shake was worth the near torture of sitting through coffee with Finn Collins.

After all, if he was going to show up and make everyone’s life a living hell, he’d at least have to pay for his own sins.

But after thirty minutes of listening to Collins repeat the same scenery that he has obviously forgotten that you survived years before him, you sort of regretted this decision… until her name came across his lips.

“How’s Clarke?” the man asks, his coffee raised to his mouth as he utters her name like it means nothing to him.

How’s Clarke?

You want to punch him.

How’s Clarke?

It’s taking everything in you to not dive across the table.

How’s Clarke?

You can’t play this game again.

“She’s great,” Octavia answers for you, the tone in her voice indicative of every ounce of rage inside of you. “She’s married now. Having a kid.”

If she’s trying to make him uncomfortable, it’s working as he awkwardly squirms in his seat, fingertip circling his mug as if searching for his next words at the bottom of the empty glass.

“That’s good,” he smiles weakly, his eyes never leaving the table. “I’m happy for her.”

“Why are you here?” you ask, Octavia practically choking on her drink as you catch everyone off guard, yourself included. As the man in front of you lifts his eyes and your sister lowers her glass, you wonder if you actually want the answer to this question.

I mean, there’s a select number of reasons why Finn Collins would make his way back to the middle of nowhere Oklahoma.

He had no family-- this you knew from when he was involved in your life last time.

He honestly had no friends-- this was apparent in the way that he spoke of the people he knew in the past tense.

There was no job here-- he said he was moving back out to New York this week for work.

And that left just one thing…

And that’s not what you wanted to hear…

“Honestly,” the man begins, ushering over a waitress to order another coffee, handing her his card to open a tab. The waitress moves to you, but you wave her off with a small ‘no thanks’ and a smile to accompany your words. “Honestly, I was hoping to see Clarke. I know it’s her birthday…”

Shit…

“And I just wanted to see how she’s doing,” he says, his eyes trailing back to the table again. “But I’m guessing that she doesn’t want to see me.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d honestly feel bad for the man.

Had you not been there, you’d wonder what kind of hell Clarke put him through.

Had you not lived it, you’d think he was the victim.

But that wasn’t the case…

It wasn’t the case at all.

_The door slams quicker than ever before, a small crash accompanying soon after before you hear the sound of footsteps quickening past your door and another slamming into the bathroom, the door shutting behind her as Clarke’s tears carry her into the tile and silence._

_It’s louder than she thinks it is. It’s always louder than she thinks it is._

_And that’s when she loses it, prompting you to close your book quickly and uncross your ankles from your bed where you found refuge. It had been like this for a week now-- every day the same story. Every day the same end._

_He was stringing her along…_

_And she was following._

_As you roll from your bed, you hear the sounds of her losing control. It was easy to ignore with headphones in, but when the sounds of her chaos haunted your dreams like the nightmares you medicated away, it was impossible to act like it wasn’t affecting you._

_With a knuckle rapping gently on the wood separating the two of you, you voice exits your mouth softly as if it will break her on impact…_

_And it very well may._

_“Hold on,” she chokes back, the toilet flushing quickly and her scurrying accompanying her movement to the faucet. She opened the door soon after, washrag in hand, eyes swollen with tears shed and those that remained, her knuckles wrapper tightly in the rag. “I’m okay,” she explains away before you can even ask. “I just ate something that didn’t agree with me.”_

_Pushing past you, she doesn’t even allow you the time to reply before the blonde has made her way into her bedroom, closing the door quickly behind her. Turning on your heel, you switch off the bathroom light and do the same, retreating back into your kingdom, unable to find the words for argument tonight._

_Last night was a different case._

_And the night before._

_As the shouts and the shattering glass from the kitchen still echoed through the cold walls, the broken picture frame from the hallway remnants of the nights before on the kitchen table, reminding you to buy another frame and to not tell Clarke that she deserved better._

_Just as you head finds your pillow, the soft sheets finding their way around your body, your phone vibrates beside you, the blinking light invading your eyes with its blue hue in contrast to the bright white of the overhead light that never gets turned off for fear of the demons that surround you at all times._

**_Clarke (2:46AM):_ ** _You were right._

_She doesn’t need to explain why you were right._

_You already know._

_But that’s not how the conversations go, and you know that._

**_Bellamy (2:46AM):_ ** _What do you mean?_

_Waiting patiently for the reply is easier said than done. Your fingers dance through the pages of a book that your eyes don’t even meet as you stare intently on the darkened screen of your phone, waiting for the backlight to illuminate your roommate’s name across the background picture of the two of you at a cabin in the woods from earlier this year._

_Honestly, Clarke was too thin in the picture._

_Honestly, you always thought she was too thin._

_But if you were going to be honest with yourself, you didn’t know what to do…_

_No one knew what to do…_

**_Clarke (2:51AM):_ ** _About him…_

**_Clarke (2:51AM):_ ** _About everything._

“Yeah, you’re right,” Your sister speaks before you can, shutting the man down quickly as she stands from her seat, ushering you up with her. You follow in suite before you can protest, your legs carrying you when you don’t even know what the next step is. “She doesn’t want to see you, and honestly Finn, neither do the rest of us.” The man looks up at your sister from his new drink, eyes swelling slightly as if he’s in pain.

“Look, I just got out of the service. I’m just here trying to get it together… repair those bridges, you know?” Finn blinks quickly, his hands trembling as he continues to speak. “I’m just trying to fix everything.”

“You can’t fix what isn’t broken,” you mumble to the man, placing a five dollar bill on the table before turning to your sister. “Let’s go,” the words push her forward as does your hand on her back, glancing back over at the man at the table before you leave. “I really wish you the best man,” you attempt to offer a sincere response, but sounding anything but it.

Honestly, you can’t be sincere and wish him the best….

Because you don’t.

\---

**OCTAVIA**

The all of 5 steps to your brother’s truck drug out for an eternity as you two walked in silence, both fearing that Finn would hear whatever words spilled from the lips that you kept tightly shut-- just in case. When you finally reached the door that your brother opened from you and sat down in the vehicle, you exhaled slowly, waiting for him to join you on the driver’s side before speaking.

And when you did, the both of you groaned the same response in unison. “Oh my god!”

“I know,” he mumbles, his eyes widening as he shifts the truck from reverse into drive, pulling out onto the main road and creating distance between you and the coffee shop, a sigh of relief exiting his lips. “So was it just me….” He begins and before he can finish, your voice joins his in only a way that siblings can.

“or was he totally weird?” the two of you say in unison, a laughter filling the car as your hand reaches up to brush your brother’s curly mop of a head.

Honestly, you’ve missed moments like this. You’ve missed just being with him. You’ve missed how carefree he could be when he wasn’t surrounded with life…

But that was the problem.

Outside of this truck, just past these doors, the world waited for him and it wasn’t kind.

For Bellamy, the world held demons that no one else could understand and no matter how hard you tried, you were part of that group…

You would never understand.

“No, he was completely off,” you finally say after the small silence that you lost yourself in. He glances over at you quickly while merging lanes, carrying the car past a slower vehicle to your left.

“What’s on your mind?” your brother asks, a small sigh carrying his words to you. Your eyes trail around the truck, noting all of the things that he’s collected since the last time you were in his vehicle.

Was it really that long ago?

Honestly, you can’t remember…

Maybe when Clarke was in the hospital?

There are pictures and papers, notes and cards. There are books and highlighters, everything that reminds you of who Bellamy was before the war.

These were all things that reminded you of who he was inside.

“Do you think,” you begin, wondering where your words are going to take you. With a sigh, a groan, and your hands to your face, you rub down your cheeks before continuing, inhaling sharply before your words took over again. “I mean, are we ever going to be okay again?”

Your brother’s eyes shoot back and forth in his head as he continues to drive for a moment, the silence engulfing the two of you to leave you in a blanket of your own thoughts. It was all too easy to feel the cold bite of loneliness with your brother while he thought. He retreated a lot-- especially these days…

Especially since returning…

_“I’ll be back,” your brother nods, lifting your chin as it falls to the floor. Honestly, you can hardly look at him. With his shaved head and clean-cut face, he’s never looked more like your father and as he shifts his backpack on one shoulder and wraps an arm around your back, you feel like you’re reliving every deployment all over again._

_Just like Christmases._

_Just like 2-week leaves._

_Just like before he died and before your mother crumbled._

_“You can’t promise that,” you remind him of your words to your father the last time that he left. “You don’t know that.” Your eyes fall to everything except your brother’s face before he pulls you in tighter._

_“I made you a promise,” Bellamy whispers into your hair as you shut your eyes, clenching your eyelids to hold back the tears that are attempting to force their way out. “I told you that I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you…”_

_“Then why are you leaving?” you push him away, your hands shoving his chest to create the distance that you desired. If you pushed him away, this would be easier. “Why do this? You have an education. You’re smart. You don’t need to do this military shit.”_

_“I’ll be back,” he chokes, the accompanying catch in his throat telling you that he’s struggling too. “I need this. I’ve always needed this.”_

_“You’re not dad,” you say, brushing away his hand as it reaches out for you._

_“I know,” he nods, laying his backpack on the floor next to his feet just as his flight number is called over the speakers, pushing the realization deeper into your brain._

_He’s leaving._

_“I’m not dad… and that’s why I’m coming back.”_

And he did…

But he didn’t at the same time.

The Bellamy who you played with growing up and chased fireflies with and went on impromptu trips with was quickly replaced with the Bellamy who struggled to maintain eye contact and who couldn’t hold conversation longer than 20 minutes and who cried in his sleep. The Bellamy who protected you from stupid boys and the words of catty girls was quickly replaced with the Bellamy who never really knew what to say if it didn’t come from a book and who was too afraid of confrontation to ever upset you anymore.

And yes, he was trying…

And yes, he was getting better…

But no, he wasn’t there…

None of you were…

 Pulling the car over to the side of the road, Bellamy puts the truck in park before turning to face you, his eyes softening at your stare. “’Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.’” He says, the quote rolling from his tongue as his fingers wring circles in his lap. “Henry David Thoreau said that, and I’m really hoping for it to be true.” The sincerity in his voice makes your heart break slightly as he mumbles a soft, “God, I need for that to be true.”

Quickly, and without thinking, your arms fu=ind themselves wrapped around your brother’s neck as you breathe him in, exhaling slowly as you feel his arms around your shoulders. “I love you,” you say to him, reassurance, if nothing else, that he’s doing fine…

That you’re all fine.

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Octavia. I promise,” you hear his soft words for probably the ten-thousandth time in your life, repeating the first thing that your older brother ever said to you. With a small nod, you simply rest your head on his shoulder, feeling, if nothing else, protected in this moment.

Maybe it wasn’t about healing or being okay.

Maybe, if nothing else, this moment was about learning to understand.

\---

**LEXA**

Even through the beauty of this day, the overwhelming sense of dread was apparent…

And even stronger once the car door shut behind Clarke.

Honestly, it was as if your wife was carrying it with her, shouldering the weight of the world as a punishment for crimes that she had yet to commit. And when you asked what was wrong, she always had some twisted way of not answering.

She was tired.

She was hungry.

Her back hurt.

She was stressed.

Something ached.

She felt sick.

Although all of these were very valid reasons, none of them fit the situation at hand.

And none of it made sense…

Until you put the car in park and turned towards her, the words “alright, are you ready?” exiting your mouth with a smile only to be shot down quickly by Clarke’s tears and gasps.

“I can’t do this,” the blonde protests, her hands covering her face and shielding you from her tears. “I’m losing control again.”

Terror.

“Woah now,” you attempt to comfort, reaching your hands up to meet hers, but she pulls away, protesting again with the same words that threaten your heart. “What the hell is happening Clarke?”

This was supposed to be a good day…

Not…

This…

“I… just… can’t….” the words scatter between breaths, Clarke’s inhales tugging you in before she exhales you away, pushing you further and further each time. “I can’t control anything… I can’t save anyone…”

“Where is this coming from?” you beg, asking as your arms finally find themselves around your wife’s shoulders, pulling her in closer to you.

The darkness that surrounds her attacks you with each breath she takes, stabbing you at your core as it freezes deep into the warmth you had to offer.

“It’s everything. It’s you. It’s me. It’s this baby. It’s Lincoln…”

And then there’s a gasp.

And silence.

Not just ordinary silence, but the kind of silence that tugs you in, leaves you wondering more. It’s the kind of silence at the end of a chapter of a book where the author has left you wondering how the character will reply. You turn the page to find it blank, leaving you with nothing except the curiosity and burning desire to flip ahead. It’s the kind of silence that pushes you from Clarke’s arms and forces you to lift her chin to look at you.

“What about Lincoln?” you ask, the worry building in your chest as all of the possibilities rush through your head.

There’s only one…

And you know what it is…

But your eyes are begging for anything other than the truth…

When Clarke doesn’t answer, you ask again. “What about Lincoln, Clarke?”

She swallows deeply, shaking her head before you release her, pulling your phone from its charger and dialing his number, your fingers gliding subconsciously across your screen as you maintain eye contact with your wife, jaw clenched as tightly as the muscles in your shoulders.

When your phone goes to voicemail, you dial again… and again… and again… until 6 missed calls later you throw the phone to the floor, starting the ignition and shoving the car into drive. Pulling around to the front of the building, you stop at the door, turning your attention back to your wife. “Go inside,” you say to her, pointing at the restaurant. “I’ll be there soon.”

“No,” she says, attempting to command whatever authority is surrounding her.

You swallow deeply, exhaling slowly as anger builds up inside of you. “Go inside, Clarke,” you order her, your eyes still not making contact with hers.

“No,” she attempts to say again, your voice booming half-way through her single syllable.

And that’s when you lose it. “For fuck’s sake Clarke, do something for me for a change and get out of the goddamned car.”

That’s it.

That’s all it took.

Even with your eyes closed, as they do when you want to avoid seeing the damage that you’ve created, you can feel Clarke’s despondency bleed over as the car door opens and slams shut, leaving you inside of the darkness that surround you.

It’s better this way.

If this was going to happen, it had to happen to you…

No one else.

You open your eyes just in time to the see the shape of your wife disappear into the restaurant to be surrounded by her friends and family.

She didn’t need this.

Not today.

\---

**OCTAVIA**

As the door opens and the blonde surfaces, your friends all gather themselves to begin the festivities and welcome Clarke into another year of her life. The look on her face, however, when everyone begins shouting and greeting her is anything but what you expected and it becomes blaringly obvious that this wasn’t going the way that it was supposed to.

Where the fuck is your husband?

\---

**BELLAMY**

The daggers that Octavia is shooting through her eyes is enough to murder Lincoln from wherever he’s at. If he expects to live, he better get here before…

Fuck…

Too late…

As the door opens and Clarke enters the building, an exasperated sigh escapes your lips.

She’s broken again…

Something’s not right…

\---

**LEXA**

Sure, that wasn’t the right way to handle the situation…

Sure, you could have been nicer to her on her birthday…

But you needed to handle this alone…

She can’t take this…

Hell, you can’t take this…

But you’re willing to shoulder this.

He’s your responsibility… Always has been…

_“You don’t have to protect me!” Lincoln shouts from across the yard, your shushing ushering him into the house. “I’m fine! Fucking look at me!”_

_“You’re about to get us both in trouble,” you urge to your younger brother as you close the distance between the two of you for the fourth time. “I swear to God, Lincoln, if you don’t get in the house right now, I’m going to leave you here to explain to dad where you were by yourself.”_

_“Fuck off,” the smell of whisky accompanies his words as he sways in the grass. “You can’t save me anyway… why do you try?” He pushes you away with an open palm before you grab his hand, sweeping his leg out from under him and accompanying his falling body to the ground, your hand gripped tight around his wrist._

_“Look, you piece of shit,” you say to your drunk brother on the ground below as you tug at his arm, tightening the muscle under his skin. “I’m trying to help you right now but if you don’t want it then fine, but don’t bring me down with you, okay?” He nods, the fear spreading across his face as your foot finds his stomach. “Now you listen, and you listen close because I’m not going to say this again tonight. Get knocked down, get back up. We’re done with this conversation, understand?”_

_Lincoln swallows deeply, another nod accompanying his attempts to lift himself to his feet before you pull at his shoulders, helping him stand. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes before you cut his words in their tracks._

_“Don’t,” you rub your eyes, supporting him as the teen sways next to you. “Your time will come to pick me up off of the floor. Just promise you’ll be there.”_

_He chuckles, wrapping an arm tightly around your shoulder. “Promise.”_

And he didn’t break that promise…

He never broke that promise…

And now…

It was your turn again.

With a deep inhale, you push the door to Lincoln and Octavia’s entry way open, attempting to call into the silence that was the house, but unable to produce any words through the dryness in your mouth. Instead, you continue to walk, turning the first right into the living room and coming face to face with the darkness that you feared-- your brother alone, surrounded only by the darkness that was spread across the table in the form of a white power.

When his eyes met yours, you weren’t looking into your brother.

Instead, when his eyes met yours, you saw the devil, staring back at you like it had so many nights before.

Instead, when his eyes met yours, you heard every broken whisper and ever tattered lie that was mumbled from the floor of a warehouse apartment in the winter.

Instead, when his eyes met yours, you felt the cold burn of every word that she slurred against you.

Instead, when his eyes met yours, you saw the bloodshot red of Costia’s pupils just before she told you it was all your fault.

Instead, when his eyes met yours, you couldn’t stand it anymore.

Without thought, you dove towards your brother, closing the distance between you and before you knew any better, there was nothing but darkness.

\---

**LINCOLN**

It came and went in flashes and when it was over, there was nothing left.

That’s how hurricanes happened, right?

Because if nothing else, when your eyes focused on your sister before you, you saw nothing but destruction. As she lay motionless on the floor in front of you, blood running down the sides of her cheeks, the patterns on her face mirroring those painted across your knuckles, air returns to your lungs just in time to flee in a gasp while you fall to your knees.

You did this.

As you inhale again, reaching down to shake her gently, your eyes meet with those of your number one fear-- the one who has been here this whole time…

The Scourge laughs gently from the corner as he crosses his arms over his chest, the smile spreading wider across his cheeks as you meet Lexa, calling out her name as you brush her hair from her face. She groans slightly under your touch, attempting to turn away but unable to move entirely.

“This is all my fault,” you mumble, finally accepting it for what it is.

You did this.

You alone are responsible.

\---

**BELLAMY**

When Clarke’s phone rings, a sigh of relief exits your lips and skirts over your water glass, pushing with it the mist of your warm breath against the chilled ice. What seemed like joy quickly falls, however, as Clarke’s smile drops from her lips and her gentle “Hello,” turn into a slew of questions like “how long?” and “what condition?” Before you know it, you’re hearing her voice mumble, “Don’t do anything until I get there,” followed by an “Okay, fine! Just take care of it!” as she stands from her chair, pulling her jacket with her and forcing her way to the door.

“Clarke, wait,” you call after her, the entire group stopping their conversations and turning the attention to the panic stricken blonde who is now biting at her lip to hold back tears.

Her face cringes as she attempts to apologize before the flood gates open and the deep breathing begins. “There’s been an accident… or something… I have to go.”

Instantly, everyone jumps to her aid-- and you’d expect nothing less from your family-- but that’s clearly not what Clarke needs right now and this is only made more apparent by the way that she ignores everyone, passing through the swarm of your friends and out the door of the dimly lit restaurant without any words.

You’re close behind her and when your feet touch down on the pavement of the parking lot, you sprint to catch your friend, grabbing her arm to spin her around. Without any words, she falls into your arms, gasping for air like a fish out of water and mumbling something about Lexa.

Your heart drops as you run through the possibilities, remembering the sinking feeling in your stomach when you received a very similar call all too recently. ‘There’s been an accident,’ the words echo through your brain, bouncing around in your skull and wreaking havoc in your mind. You can barely bring yourself to breathe when you urge Clarke to take her own breath, taking the side of her arms in your hands and giving the blonde a small shake. “St. Anthony’s?” you ask, receiving a small nod while she chokes down more air. “Alright, let’s go,” you say to her, attempt to don your best strong face while withdrawing your keys from your pocket.

It’s probably not working, but it’s worth a shot.

You wish you could say that you were listening to the words as they exited Clarke’s mouth, but honestly, you only heard every third phrase. There was something about the phone call and how she should have never let Lexa go alone. Then there was something about Lexa’s lungs and her being transferred to another unit, but your mind was piecing it together. It was like listening to someone tell you a fairy-tale as you drifted into sleep, the sounds of her voice haunting your nightmares as they formed. It wasn’t until you were ten minutes from the hospital that everything began to come into focus for you. Slamming on the breaks, your mind pieced it together at last.

“Wait, what happened?” you asked for clarity as Clarke shuddered at the sudden jolt of your truck. Probably not your best move-- scaring the woman who was hospitalized and in a coma due to a car wreck by slamming on your breaks in the slick stretch of highway at night, but it didn’t process until after the fact, much like everything else.

“I don’t know!” Clarke shouts, throwing her hands into the air. “That’s what I’ve been saying…. Lincoln’s been using and she went to confront him and now…. You don’t think….”

But she doesn’t finish her phrase. As her head falls into her hands, you pull out your phone and begin texting the only person you know that would understand these demons…

And the only person who could help.

 **Bellamy (8:22PM):** What’s that rehab place?

As you wait for the reply, you free hand reaches out to Clarke, finding a spot on her knee. Through her jeans and the distance between you two you can feel her tremble, the darkness cascading off of her shoulders. “There’s no way that he’d hurt her, right?”

You honestly can’t answer that. You’ve seen good men go to shit because of the types of things that Clarke has been mumbling about, but not men like Lincoln…

Not men who’ve survived what he’s seen.

The ding of your phone is a welcome relief as you draw your attention back to the device, the illuminated screen drawing you in.

 **Murphy (8:25PM):** mine? Centerpointe. Do I want to know why?

Breathing deeply, you reply quickly, asking him to call them and request a bed. Whether Lincoln knows it or not, he’s getting help.

If nothing else, this was the business that you were in.

_“What do you mean you can’t take him?” Clarke is shouting at the man on the other side of the clipboard as Murphy sinks deep into the seat._

_“I mean that this is not a detox facility. He’s a flight risk and a trigger risk for our other clients,” the smaller, turtle-like man spoke, shifting his glasses to hide himself from Clarke’s glare. “If he was clean then we’d be able to admit him but the truth is that we don’t have the means to care for him. What if he was to…”_

_Your roommate groans loudly, rolling her eyes and her head as the man speaks. Your eyes find Murphy who awkwardly crosses his arms to hide himself from the situation. His eyes are void and lifeless as he fidgets under his oversized leather jacket, his fingertips drumming across his knees. He’s just a fucking kid from the upper east coast… who somehow found his way to Norman Oklahoma…_

_“I’m well aware of what can happen. I’m a nurse, sir,” Clarke sarcastically argues, insulting the man with each syllable of her words. “But what kind of rehab facility doesn’t take in drug addicts?”_

_“It’s not that he’s a drug addict, ma’am,” the man quips back, rolling his eyes as he sighs. You can feel the tension growing in Clarke’s shoulders as your hand reaches up to touch her gently. A spark lights in Murphy’s eyes that you’ve seen before and heard in the conversation from this morning._

_He’s convinced that you and Clarke are dating. The last 24 hours of  rhetoric have made this clear and in spite of all of your arguments and all of your debate, nothing you’ve said to the boy has convinced him otherwise. You’ve come one or two words short of outing Clarke and he’s still not convinced, but hey…. Whatever he needs to think in order to help himself…_

_“It’s that he’s…” the man continues, attempting to argue his case against Clarke. This argument is going nowhere and you can tell that neither party is going to give up any time soon… Hell, by the time they reach a conclusion it will probably be because the drugs have passed through Murphy’s system and because he’d pass a drug test from having to wait so long._

_“He’s a trigger risk, we get it,” you interrupt, grabbing the back of Clarke’s arm. “Thank you anyway,” you pull Clarke back, signaling to Murphy that you’re leaving._

_“What the fuck?” Clarke asks as you start to make your way to the door. Holding it for her, you listen to her protests as she and the younger man pass through into the sunlight. “What are you doing?”_

_“Look,” you begin, wrapping an arm around Murphy’s shoulder. “They’re not giving up… So let’s just detox him ourselves. You can do that, right?” Your eyes meet the blonde’s who isn’t appearing to be convinced. “I mean, you can do that, right?” you ask the boy, ruffling his hair as you reach your truck._

_As he crawls in, taking the seat between you and Clarke he smiles awkwardly at you, his eyes shifting between you and Clarke. “I mean, as long as you’re willing to… I’ll try.” He shrugs his shoulder, eyes falling to the floor before he crosses his arms, hiding inside the folds of his jacket._

_“Alright,” you smile, starting the ignition of your truck and shifting the car into drive. “It’s settled then.”_

It wasn’t an easy fight, but Murphy survived…

And Lincoln will too.

\---

**CLARKE**

You weren’t even sure what you expected anymore. It had been so easy to watch respirators rise and fall over the years and to hear that steady beeping of the heart monitor… so easy that it had become background static that you almost didn’t notice. But something about room 221 screamed out before you could even exit the elevator. It was as if the pounding of Lexa’s heart called to you from across the hallway, singing the song that drew you in. You honestly knew which room was hers just by the sound alone before the nurse on duty even had to tell you. With Bellamy outside talking to Lincoln, your feet carried you alone around the corner and into the white room, barren and empty except for the love of your life, motionless against the pale sheets.

Her face was lined with lacerations, her nose taped up as a plastic breathing mask outlined her mouth and nose, pumping the air into her lungs as they fought to stay inflated. Fighting back the tears and darkness as it filled your own insides, you swallow all that negativity back down, reaching for the clipboard attached to the side of the bed. As your eyes scan over it, a voice behind you startles you, causing you to jump and drop the wooden board to the floor.

“She’s going to be fine,” your mother says, leaning into the room momentarily before she steps entirely inside, wrapping her arms around you. In that moment, completely engulfed in your mother’s grasp, you release everything. The tears begin to fall as you gasp for air, attempting to swallow down as much of it as possible as if it will escape if you don’t. “Her left lung collapsed partially, but she’s recovering already. She’s strong.”

Your mother’s words help ease the burn of the situation, but the wound is still fresh. Finding the chair behind you, your collapse into it, your head falling to the side of the bed next to Lexa’s body. “How long until she can come home?” You know that this question is ridiculous. You know that your mother can’t tell you that. You know that it will be days before Lexa can walk out of the hospital, but still, the part of you that is irrational and overwhelmed is taking over, forcing the sensible, logical, educated nurse to take a backseat.

Your mother snorts a small laugh, placing a hand on yours as her eyes meet you, warming the air around you with her gentle smile. “Let’s work on getting her breathing right again, okay?”

Nodding, you turn back to your wife, listening to the sounds of the air entering and exiting her lungs. Before you can stop it the words “Come back to me,” are exiting your lips.

Come back to me.

\---

**BELLAMY**

By 9pm, the pulsating in your knuckles reminds you of the cracking sound when your fist met with the side of Lincoln’s jaw.

By 9:30pm, the cops had shown up and took your brother-in-law away.

By 9:45pm, your family had all appeared and taken over the waiting room-- much like last time.

By 10pm, you received the phone call about Lincoln’s status. They’re holding him over night.

By 10:15pm, the group migrated to Lexa’s room where your best friend sat upright, sore, exhausted, but smiling none the less with her wife sitting right beside her.

By 10:30pm, a pizza arrived, Monroe had changed into pajama pants, and Clarke’s birthday party continued, even if the air was different.

They tried… everyone tried to salvage the evening, but with the clicking of Lexa’s breathing machines, the way that she cringed when she laughed, the constant flow of nurses and doctors entering and exiting, attempting to not break the festivities as they checked charts and monitors-- it was different. It wasn’t the same.

By the time Octavia made her way in, Myles strapped to the carrier around her chest, the crowd had begun dying down and with only one piece of pizza left, Murphy, Clarke, yourself and your sister, the silence that lingered in the room screamed louder than any of you could take. “He’s being sent to rehab,” Octavia mumbles almost silently, reaching for the final pizza slice that lingered in the grease covered box. Her words didn’t shock anyone in the room, but she continued as if they did anyway. “He’s got 90 days of treatment and then we’ll see what the next step is.”

While your sister’s words drown into static, the vibrating of your phone distracts you just enough to alleviate the mind numbing awkwardness that has filled your bones. From the seat beside the bed, you open the email, Lexa’s head shifting to you as she lifts an eyebrow in her typical ‘everything okay?’ kind of look. You offer a small nod before you begin reading.

**Blake,**

**It’s great to hear from you. Can’t say that I’m sorry that it’s taken so long though. You were a pain in my ass from day 1. Look brother, I wanted to let you know that I did a little bit of searching on this Collins guy that you were asking about. Let me tell you something, this guy is a real work of art-- dangerous kind of guy. I ran into him once when doing a training seminar out east and if I’m remembering correctly, this brother is unhinged like the best of him. You were right to be questioning his discharge. Homeboy lost his shit a couple of months ago and shot up an entire village between Oskemen and the Russian border. If I was you, I’d steer clear and let him pass. Men like him come and go in waves. If there’s anything else that I can do for you, brother, let me know! Tell that sister of yours I say hello.**

**Sgt. Meyers**

Sighing deeply, you exit out of your email, swiping the app closed before closing your eyes and rubbing your chin. Maybe Meyers was right. Maybe Finn would just pass through and disappear. Before you can open your eyes, a weight falls into your lap, squirming gently.

“Take him,” Octavia sighs, handing off her son to you before she makes her way into the hallway, her eyes swollen with unshed tears. With a smile, you wrap your arms around your nephew, bouncing the infant on your knee as his head bobs around, making eye contact with everyone in the room.

By 11:30pm, you dozed off with your nephew on your chest as you slouched in your chair.

By 11:45pm, you awoke to the vibrating of your phone on your lap.

 **Harper (11:44pm):** Can I come home now?

With a smile across your face, you swipe your response, locking the screen and holding tight to Myles, your eyes scanning the room. Octavia was asleep on the couch across the room from you while Clarke was wrapped up in Lexa’s arms, her breathing leveling with that of the respirator behind the bed. Lexa inhaled deeply, exhaling in shudders, but exhaling none the less.

 **Bellamy (11:46pm):** please.

Closing your eyes, you breathe in deeply too, thankful that tomorrow is a new month.

And with the new month comes a new chance to make things right.

 


	10. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to go about this one a little differently. You'll see what I mean.  
> CHECK OUT THE SOUNDTRACK: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4  
> ADD ME ON TUMBLR: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

**LEXA**

It doesn’t take much for you to forgive your brother-- it never has. Clarke, on the other hand, is a different story. So, when you volunteer, after only 4 days in the hospital, to go with Bellamy to take Lincoln to the rehab center in Carthage, Mo, a long and dreary 4 hours in the rain of this Tuesday morning, her protests begin almost as soon as the words exit your mouth. It’s not that they necessarily fall on deaf ears, you hear her alright, but it’s that they don’t matter to you. You’ve already made up your mind.

“I can’t believe you’re going with them,” she grumbles as you grab your backpack, flinging the black strap over one shoulder and cringing at the turn in your torso. You forget that your ribs are bruised. You forget that just 5 days before your lung was deflated partially, struggling against the weight of the fluid around it. You forget about the hole in your chest that the needle had been inserted in order to drain the fluid keeping your lung down. You forget about the bruising and the cuts and the damage done at the mercy of your brother’s fists.

What you haven’t forgotten, however, was the look in his eyes.

What you haven’t forgotten, however, was that you struck him first.

What you haven’t forgotten, however, was that he apologized, through a sweating forehead, shifting eyelids, and trembling palms as he promised, inside of your hospital room with all eyes upon him, that he was going to get better.

Most importantly, what you haven’t forgotten was the way that the same man who was inside of the monster who hospitalized you was there, when no one else was...

To pick you off of the floor on nights when you didn’t want to live...

To carry you home on days that you had been too drunk and too depressed to do so yourself...

To drive to a whole nother city to find you strung across your girlfriend’s floor while she laid stoned in another room.

Inside of that man who pushed his knuckles through the bridge of your nose and into the orbits of your eyes was the boy who grew up too fast in order to take care of you when you could not.

Inside of that man was your brother-- and nothing would change that.

“I’ll be fine,” you reassure your wife with a smile, kissing her forehead as you pull her in with one hand, the other clenching tightly to your backpack strap to keep the cringe from spreading outward. She couldn’t see you in pain.

The sound of Bellamy’s horn for the fifth time pushes you closer to the door, your fingers dragging Clarke behind you and onto the front porch. “I love you,” she says as she kisses you, interlocking her fingers into yours.

“I love you,” your reply is drown out by the sound of Bellamy’s horn again and him shouting something about making babies and being late. Honestly, you had no clue what he said, and you’re more okay with it than not.

Releasing Clarke, you jog through the rain, wincing with each step that you take, to the truck parked on the side of the road.

“Good god, we can never be on time for anything,” Bellamy grumbles as you slam the truck door behind you, tossing your backpack into the seat next to you before you lean forward, ruffling the hair of the man driving and kissing your brother on the cheek.

He flinches against your lips, a shiver running across his body as you note the beads of sweat building an intricate pattern across his face.

He’s coming down hard.

“Here,” you say to him, pulling a green sticky note from your pocket and handing it to your brother. His fingertips graze yours before he pulls back, turning to look at you questioningly. “Take it,” you urge him forward, pushing your hand closer to him. “Open it when you get there, okay?”

He nods, turning his attention back to the road which Bellamy is traveling down. Throwing yourself back against the seat, you turn to face the window to your right, resting your chin on your hand as it holds up your head. The rain is racing down the sides of the truck in little droplets, each carrying a unique path until they join with the others after a time alone.

Funny how your lives were like that.

What saddens you the most about this realization, however, is when two of the little racers separate before the bottom, ending their path together while they move in opposite directions.

Sighing deeply, you close your eyes, your mind flooding with a million thoughts, one of which screaming louder than the others.

_Don’t let that be us. Don’t let us separate._

\---

**BELLAMY**

It doesn’t take much for you to convince Lexa to go sign Lincoln into the facility. She’s just excited to help. And as soon as she’s out of the truck, the air of awkwardness exits with her, leaving you and Lincoln alone, in full candid conversation.

“I’m scared,” the soft tremble exits the mouth of your friend as his gaze stays fixated out the windshield in front of him.

You sigh, rubbing your face, noting the growth of the facial hair surrounding your chin. It’s been a long few days... Fuck, it’s been a long few years for you. “That’s acceptable,” you say to him, not taking your eyes off of the small field in front of your car. It’s supposed to be a courtyard of sorts, but you know better than that. How many inpatient rehab facilities allow their patients to roam freely around in the grass? “Change is hard...”

“It’s not the change,” your friend interrupts you and you can feel his eyes turn towards you. “It’s the fear of not changing.” He sighs slowly, exhaling every particle of air inside of his lungs before taking a sharp breath and continuing again, his hands finding the sides of his head. “I mean, what if this is just who I am?”

You turn to look at him, glancing over your friend as he trembles beside you. “It’s not.”

“But what if it is?” He almost interrupts you, turning to face you. For the first time since you met outside of his house, Lincoln looks you in the eyes, his dark brown eyes echoing deeply the pain and anxiety that is filling him inside.

“It’s not...”

He sighs again as you turn in your seat, reaching into the side pocket of your door for your CD case, rummaging through the hundreds of burnt CDs that rarely leave the folder once they enter. “The world has been trying to turn me into a monster for as long as I can remember,” he mumbles as his eyes turn away again, this time to the window beside him. You finally find what you’re looking for, sliding the disk into the frequently unused CD player and skipping to track number five while he speaks.

“I want you to hear this,” you say as the guitar rhythm begins playing, silencing both of your words when Jaymes Young’s voice joins in. The first verse comes and goes with nothing except for the sounds of your breathing to play in contrast from within the truck.

_I thought I saw the devil, this morning, looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue with the warning to help me see myself clearer. I never meant to start a fire. I never meant to make you bleed. I'll be a better man today._

You hear the small shudder from beside you of Lincoln’s breathing hitch under his tears, but your eyes maintain their fixation on the area outside of the car, your hands still gripped tightly to the steering wheel. This is just as much a letter to yourself as it is to him.

_I'll be good, I'll be good and I'll love the world, like I should. Yeah, I'll be good, I'll be good, for all of the times that I never could._

It was just this morning that Harper spoke to you on your way out, her words still haunting your thoughts. “I feel like a stranger in my own house,” she explained, her bag packed beside her feet as a backpack dangled from her shoulders.

_My past has tasted bitter for years now, so I wield an iron fist. Grace is just weakness or so I've been told. I've been cold, I've been merciless, but the blood on my hands scares me to death. Maybe I'm waking up today._

“I love you, and I’m glad that you’re going back to therapy and doing what needs to be done, but I can’t be here until you’re ready... I can’t be here until I’m ready.” It wasn’t a complete surprise when she said these things to you, the two of you had spent the last four days dancing around the awkwardness between you two like two people who had an uncomfortable one night stand and just happened to run into each other on the subway or something.

_I’ll be good, I’ll be good and I’ll love the world, like I should. Yeah, I’ll be good, I’ll be good_

It did come as a surprise to her, apparently by the look written across her face, when you agreed, helping her gather her things and load them into her Kia before she drove off, leaving you standing on your porch in your ripped up jeans and a t-shirt that she bought you for the second time in two months. It wasn’t until she was gone that the realization hit you-- you were alone... again.

_For all of the light that I shut out. For all of the innocent things that I’ve doubt. For all of the bruises that I’ve caused and the tears. For all of the things that I’ve done all these years._

Glancing over at Lincoln, you move only your eyes, afraid that if you turn your head, the moment will disappear. As he shakes in the seat beside you, you listen to his breathing steady for the first time since he entered your truck’s front seat over three hours ago. His hands are clenching tightly to his denim covered knees, his bruised knuckles white around the lines that share symmetry with his sister’s jaw.

_Yeah, for all of the sparks that I've stomped out. For all of the perfect things that I doubt._

“Do you think she blames me?” he asks, his jaw clenched so tightly that the words barely escape through his teeth. “I mean, do you think everyone blames me?”

_I'll be good, I'll be good and I'll love the world, like I should. Yeah, I'll be good, I'll be good, for all of the times that I never could._

“No,” you reply, placing a hand on your friend’s shoulder just as Lexa opens the truck door beside her brother, her ponytail bouncing as she hops from the curb, her cringe hidden behind a clenched jaw and a small squint of her left eye.

“Ready?” she asks, placing a hand on her brother’s right hand, interlocking her fingers with his.

He nods.

You follow.

\---

**LINCOLN**

After peeing in a cup and listening to an older woman explain to you the schedule and handing you a booklet with rules, regulations, and information on your facility, your sister wraps her arms around you, her sharp inhale reminding you of the damage that you caused as she lifts her arms to reach your neck.

It’s all your fault.

“I love you,” she says, her voice catching in a similar fashion to that of your wife’s just before you left.

_“I’m going to get better,” you say to Octavia as the brunette skirts through doorways and dances around you, avoiding your eyes as much as possible. Bellamy sits at the kitchen table holding your son, avoiding interaction with the conversation as much as possible._

_And you can’t even blame him._

_Octavia hasn’t spoken a word to you since you arrived here this morning to gather your things after spending the last two nights at Murphy’s._

_It’s been two hours and you’ve done all of the talking._

_“I’m sorry,” you say for probably the ten-thousandth time._

_Again, nothing._

_With a bag in your hand you watch as Octavia strategically avoids you, taking the long way around tables, moving in specific patterns so as to no touch you._

_Stepping lightly in between her and the door to the living room, you stop her in her tracks, moving a hand gently to lift her chin, forcing her eyes from the floor to yours. Kissing her lips softly, you apologize again, this time with eyes focused on hers. “I’m going to get better.”_

_“You better,” she mumbles, placing her fingertips on your hand. “All or nothing, okay?” You nod. “No, either you get up and we fight this, or you crawl away and die alone like a coward. It’s your choice.”_

_Swallowing deeply against the tears pooling up in her eyes, you nod once more, kissing her forehead as you pull her in for one final hug, holding her tighter than you have for months._

_With one nod to Bellamy, you take your son from your brother-in-law, kissing his head before handing him off to your wife and making your way to the door._

_“I love you,” she stammers as you walk out, your reply coming just as you close the door._

_“I love you.”_

Once all is said and done and you find yourself sitting on the corner of a stone slab of a mattress, you exhale slowly, trembling with each molecule of air that exits your lungs. Pulling the green sticky note from your pocket, you unfold it gently, making sure that the glue doesn’t rip the note as it unwraps revealing Lexa’s well rounded and perfectly organized handwriting.

Get knocked down, get back up.

That’s all it says.

That’s all that it needs to say.

Get knocked down, get back up.

\---

**HARPER**

Sliding your car into park, you sit for a moment outside of Clarke and Lexa’s house, the gravel driveway mapping out the path that you need to take-- the path that you can’t bring yourself to walk. With your bag in the seat beside you and the spare key attached to your key ring, you listen to the sound of silence, the air conditioner offering the only noise to fill the void around you.

What are you even doing anymore?

Why not just accept it?

The relationship is over.

Clicking the button on your dashboard for the radio, you shift the car into reverse, flipping through the songs on your ipod before you finally stop at one, unable to bring yourself to click the next button. Instantly, you regret it.

_All things pass with time. Old trends, old friends. Fitting for the month that Michael died. Buried in a stone cold riverbed, where the watershed divides._

You regret everything.

_Oh come colder weather. Oh come something better please._

You regret walking out.

_All things freeze with time. Clear skies, dry eyes. Am I colder than the air in this town. I have been a stone cold riverbed, if still I am alive._

You regret driving off.

_But maybe. Someday. Maybe you'll forgive me._

You regret pushing play.

_Because I've been a mayday son. I'm withered, weathered by the setting sun of your summer. If I could be anyone. These days I'd be someone different. So I could hold you now_

You regret this song.

_But you slip away like a changing maple leaf. And try to find any dry land that I can. For the last time, though I have loved you. You keep slippin' away, slippin' away and I am finished with._

And when the tears in your eyes finally get too thick for you to drive any longer, you pull to the side of the road, allowing the sobs to escape your lips for the first time since they began building in your throat. You suck the air in quickly, swallowing it down deeply before it can control you... But let’s be honest, you’re not in control right now.

_All the chaos and the ticking clock. The college life, the bomb that drops. And blows the whole damn thing to bits. Freezing are my fingertips in this cold. In this cold, cold town._

Reaching into the seat beside you, you pull the hoodie that you shoved in last minute from the top of the first zipped up pocket, struggling more than you should have but not caring once the sweatshirt was in your arms. It still smelled like him, in spite of the number of times that you’ve worn and washed the damn thing. It would always smell like him.

_We make such different people. Climbing into different beds at night. With both such different feelings. Mine are overwhelming, are yours._

Pulling the heavy sweatshirt over your head, you pull the hood up, pulling the fabric to cover your nose and mouth as you inhale his scent, closing your eyes and remembering the way that he smiled with his own dark eyes from beside you every morning that you two woke up beside each other. More in particularly, you remember the way that his curly hair covered his eyes until you pushed it back, his own hands finding the locks of your hair that attempted to drown you.

_I might be screaming while you're. Dreaming without any concern. It took so long for me to find. That I can't try anymore._

You remember the sound of his voice as he whispers to you that he loves you, a hand finding your cheek or your hips or simply holding you around your waist while he pulls you closer into his grasp, holding you against his body and making you feel safe-- even if lack of safety was your supposed reason for leaving.

_And if I said I'm sorry. Too many times before it's 'cause I. Just wanted desperately to make you love me._

Reaching your hand into the pocket, you pull a notecard with his messy scribbles scrawled across two of the blue lines, his words outlining the paper from one side to the next. As you read the text out loud, your words shudder and your breathing hitches, drowning you again in your own tears before you can even complete the phrase.

_Darling, if the sun could shine in. Brighter than all your distractions. I would climb in to help. And light myself on fire._

Opening your mouth, you try once more to read the words, finally completing the sentence. And then you repeat it again. And again. And again, until this single F. Scott Fitzgerald quote is the only phrase that you’ve heard or spoken in twenty minutes. With your fingers gripping tightly to the steering wheel, you say it one final time, your words finally coming out clearly as you’ve run out of tears to shed.

Shifting the car back into drive, you turn around, making your way back to Clarke and Lexa’s house with those words still falling from your tongue.

“And in the end, we were all just humans… Drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.”

\---

**CLARKE**

Being alone gives you time to think. Having time to think causes you to remember. Remembering makes you miss things. Missing things makes you sad. Being sad makes you feel like you’re losing control. Losing control leaves only one thing...

You’re like the world’s worst reading of IF YOU GIVE A MOUSE A COOKIE and even though you know you shouldn’t, you lock yourself inside of the bathroom, knowing that the lock is unnecessary... after all, you’re alone. That’s what started this whole thing...

Well, that’s not entirely true. If you want to be completely honest Aspen Caldwell started this entire thing in high school when she was losing weight and you weren’t. Aspen Caldwell started this entire thing when she told you that she had a secret plan to always make weight before weigh-ins. Aspen Caldwell started this entire thing when she led you to a website of girls just like you-- girls who needed control. Girls who were there for each other with inspiration in the form of challenges, explaining their victories and pushing you further into the rabbit hole of your throat.

As your knees find the cold tile below, you wonder if this is control, or if it’s the baby at this point-- some days it’s hard to tell. Some days it comes so easily that you don’t even feel guilty anymore-- if it was that easy to come up, it shouldn’t be down to begin with, right? As your knees find the cold tile below, you wonder what Lexa is doing right now. Is she fighting her own wars with Lincoln at the moment? Is she even concerned with you?

Your shaking fingers find the corner of the toilet seat, lifting the blue lid up as your eyes trail the grout between the tiles. Lexa and Bellamy had laid this floor themselves and it was obvious by the slight patching in between each white square. The lines were uneven and shaky, but they were yours, built and constructed with love and hope for something better, and no one could steal that from you.

No one except for yourself.

And then you see it.

Not many things could make it okay to lose control. Not many things could make you want to walk away. Not many things... Only her.

And that’s exactly what she did.

With a pink sticky note contrasting against the blue underside of the toilet seat lid, you trace the letters written in Lexa’s own handwriting, each stroke of her pen individually scripted for you.

_You do not need this._

It was so simple-- Just five words. It was only 16 letters, but for some reason, the way that those 16 letters were organized in the handwriting that you’ve seen scrawled across countless love letters and numerous shopping lists stops you in your tracks, stealing your breath as your fingers pull at the paper, the glue relenting under your grasp. Bringing it closer to your face, your eyes scan it over again, watching the words intently, waiting for them to change.

She wasn’t supposed to know.

You had taken careful concern to make sure that she didn’t know.

And yet...

_You do not need this_ tells you that she does, in fact, know.

Bringing the paper close to your chest, a small groan escapes your lips as your head falls to the toilet seat, tears already beginning their path down your cheeks and to your knees where they land, fighting with gravity to keep from falling from the tip of your nose. Inhaling deeply, you tremble out a small shudder, pulling your phone from your pocket and dialing the only person who you knew would come right now.

“Yes baby?” your mother’s voice echoes through the airwaves, filling your insides with butterflies as you open your mouth to speak, nothing but a raspy stammer exiting. “Are you home?” she asks, her tone all too reminiscent of your nights spent in the hotel.

You weren’t supposed to remember those nights. You told everyone that you didn’t, but the truth was, at some point during your cognitive therapy, the pain of loneliness surfaced, reminding you of how welcoming your mother actually was for the first time in years.

“Yes,” is all that you’re able to get out before she begins asking you even more questions.

“Where’s Lexa?.... Are you alone?...  What’s happening?”

The bombardment continues until you can’t take it anymore. With your elbow on the rim of the toilet bowl and the palm of your hand on your forehead, holding your head up above the cool porcelain toilet you exhale deeply, cutting your mother’s words short. “I don’t want to be bulimic anymore,” you practically shout at her, the silence on her end deafening after your words. It lingers for a moment before you can’t tolerate its sharpness, filling the void with more of your voice. “I don’t want this struggle. I don’t want this pain. I don’t... I just.... don’t....”

That phrase, as broken and shattered as it was...

It was freeing.

That admission...

It was freeing.

“We don’t get to pick our struggles, Clarke,” Abby’s voice calms you, even if her words don’t. “But your struggle is not an indication of failure... You are not a failure.” The force in the word YOU as it enters your ears reminds you that she is specifically talking to her daughter causing you to lift your head and look around the room, reaching for anything to pull yourself to your feet with. She is talking to you-- You and only you.

You are not a failure.

Finally giving up and allowing your body to fall the rest of the way to the floor, you lay your head back on the tile, feeling the cold chill against your shoulders. “Will you come over?” you ask her, blowing a piece of your hair from your cheeks. For the first time in ages, your chest doesn’t feel ready to cave under the weight of your struggle. For the first time in ages, you don’t feel heavy.

“Yes, baby,” your mother says calmly on the other line before hanging up. She was never much one for goodbyes. Laying the phone down on the floor next to you, you slide a hand over your stomach, feeling your little one move inside you. Supposedly they were the size of a rutabaga-- whatever the fuck that was. It didn’t matter what weird fruit or vegetable they resembled this week-- you were just happy to be feeling them, finally.

Taking a deep breath, you breathe for the first time without the weight of your sin pulling you down.

It’s still there-- the darkness still lingers, but for the first time since Aspen Caldwell, you’re alright with this, right now.

\---

**LEXA**

This was a good day.

This was a really good day.

With your wife on one side of you, your sister-in-law on the other, and Octavia on either side of her, you sat in the stands and watched as your sister completely dominated the field, weaving in and out of the competition as the Chicago Red Stars players tried to keep up. It wasn’t that they weren’t good. It was just that they weren’t your sister... And as the game continued, so do your fascination with the way that your little sister had grown as an athlete since moving to Kansas.

You had seen her play in one game since moving-- where she proposed to Roma-- but that game was nothing compared to this. As the ball leaves the ground beside another player, a woman named Becky who you had only known from television until you laughed at her dry humor and awkward demeanor while discussing science fiction books like Ender’s Game and Brave New World, it jumps almost completely vertically towards your sister and your heart stops. Your sister’s feet leave the ground, lifting her into the air as she turns her body almost completely around, kicking the ball with her feet over her head hard enough to send it into the corner of the goal, the crowd around you immediately erupting in shouts and cheers.

Tris’ face lights up as her eyes meet yours just before she’s buried under a pile of her teammates-- a sight that you will never get tired of. Honestly, you don’t know which you like better: her smile towards you or their excitement at her being a part of their team.

As the second half of the game begins, Clarke shifts towards you, wrapping her arms around yours and lacing her fingers in your grip. Lifting up on her toes, the blonde kisses you on the cheek, a smile spreading across your face. “I love you,” she whispers to you before the crowd begins cheering again.

“I love you,” you reply with a quick glance back at her before your eyes turn back to the field. Your sister has somehow managed to gain possession of the ball and is sprinting across the grassy field, her feet gliding with ease as she fakes to the left, rolling against her competition before swinging her leg back, kicking a straight line path into the goal from the half line mark.

She’s on fire today and the crowd is not letting her forget it.

“Jesus Christ, Baby Carli Lloyd is killing it today!” Octavia sways, breathing out the smell of rum as she leans behind Clarke, tugging at the shoulder of your hoodie to stay standing.

You smile at her, holding her elbow to balance the smaller woman. “You have to pick a nickname and stick with it,” you laugh as she flairs her nostrils at you, huffing against your words.

“No I shant,” she laughs, returning to her spot with her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re just mad that I like her enough to give her a nickname.”

“That’s totally it,” you joke back, waving at your sister as she makes her way back to the other side of the field, high fiving a couple of her teammates on the way.

It’s funny that you ended up here.                                                                 

_“When is a player offside?” Your father asks receiving a groan and a long, exaggerated exhale from your younger sister. The six year old attempts to free her hand from your grasp, but you tighten your grip, laughing as she rolls her eyes and begins reciting the offsides rules that he’s been teaching her since birth._

_As she speaks, you watch her hands motion to positions on the imaginary field in front of her, the words flowing so easily that she could teach this. “He is nearer to his opponents’ goal line than both the ball and the second last opponent,” she groans the last two words, her brown eyes continuing to roll in her head as the three of you walk. “Where are we going?”_

_“It’s a surprise,” you answer for your father, smiling up at the man. He nods, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and kissing the side of your head._

_“Yes it is... Now when is a player not in an offside position?” Keith asks Tris, watching as she begins to roll her eyes again, stopping when she notices that he’s watching her. He smiles at you, still holding tight to your shoulder “We’re going to train her now,” he whispers, the two of you laughing quietly at your sister as she lists off her answer again._

_“He is in his own half of the field,” she says, her fingers meeting with yours as she counts on her hand, “or he is in line with the second last opponent.”_

_“And what if you blow at soccer?” you ask, lifting your little sister up into your arms, laughing as she kicks at you, pushing your face away with the palms of her hands._

_“That’s you, ass-wipe,” she says, your father’s head snapping quickly to catch the shock across both of your faces._

_“What?” he laughs, pushing your shoulder once you’ve allowed your sister’s feet to touch the floor again. “Don’t let your mother hear that,” is all he has to say, his eyes speaking more than his words as they make contact with yours._

_Soccer wasn’t your thing. It never had been. In fact, you and your father had your own thing... that was football... but soccer... soccer was his and Tris’._

It’s funny that after all of those trips with your father, the countless games recorded on DVR, the endless private lessons and carpools to practices, you found yourself here-- Watching as your sister played with some of the nation’s best women, scoring goals and killing it completely.

As the ball leaves the ground again, you lift yourself up on your toes, remembering the words of the small little girl who you carried back from the University of Oklahoma women’s locker room after meeting senior defender Katie Corbett as she mumbled “I want to be a soccer player,” in your ear quietly, causing a smile to spread across your lips.

“She’s doing it,” you say to yourself, causing Clarke to glance over at you before turning back to the game.

When Tris heads the ball, however, you know something’s not right. First, she misses the goal-- Tris never misses. Second, Tris falls-- Tris never falls. Third, when your sister lifts herself from the ground, she begins rubbing her eyes, the look of panic and shock writing itself clearly across her face.

Roma’s hand finds yours, tugging at your fingers as you hear her breathing hitch, catching itself within her chest for a moment longer than it should. “She’s fine,” you say, unsure if you’re trying to convince yourself or your sister’s wife. “She’s totally fine.”

\---

**CLARKE**

“She’s fine,” Lexa lies, not even convincing herself. You watch on silently as Octavia’s hands lift to her mouth to catch her gasp before it leaves her body.

“Dude, is Little Lloyd alright?” your friend asks, leaning into you. “What happened?”

Blinking against your thoughts, you shake your head. Surely she just caught herself off guard.

When Tris finally finds her feet, she brushes off her shorts, waving at the crowd who instantly, all at once, takes a massive breath, cheers beginning again at the return of their hero. Finally finding the air within your own lungs, you exhale again, your eyes not leaving your sister-in-law.

“What’s she doing?” Roma asks over to you, leaning across your wife to close the gap. Tris is rubbing her eyes, her hands trailing down her neck before making their way back up to her face again. She runs a few feet before stopping to repeat the process.

She’s struggling. It may not be obvious, but she’s blinking more than she should be, her shoulder hitching as she swallows deeply more than necessary. “I don’t know. Something’s not right,” you mumble, releasing your wife’s hand and starting to make your way down the three rows separating you from the fence around the field. “Hey,” you shout to one of the security guards, finally getting his attention after a few more shouts. “Something’s wrong with 19,” you say, your hand lifting to point out to Tris. “That’s my sister and I’m a nurse,” you begin before the blonde man cuts you off.

“Don’t worry yourself, sweetie,” he says, lowering your hand for you. “We’ve gotten EMTs and Athletic Trainers here for that. You just enjoy the game...”

Clenching your jaw, your eyes shift between the game on the field and the man on the other side of the fence, drawing every bit of energy in you to keep from shouting at the man just before Tris doubles over, falling to her knees as she pukes violently.  Slamming your hands against the fence you start shouting at the man before you can even stop yourself, your eyes turning to see Lexa’s face drop, her eyes widen as terror writes itself across your group.

This is not how this is supposed to happen.

It was just a few seconds before Lexa had already hopped the fence and was tackled by security. Shouting and kicking as they carried her off of the field, your wife continued to claw her way from the guards’ grips before the paramedics arrived to Tris’ side.

And all you could do was watch from the other side of the gate.

This is not how this is supposed to happen.

\---

**LEXA**

This is the end of your life.

You never thought it would end like this, but this is the end of your life-- your heart stopping the moment that you hear the doors to the Emergency Room open into the waiting room that you had been ushered into an hour before... An older gentleman in a white lab coat appearing, his face neutral and void of all emotion... Four single words that you can barely hear over the pounding of your heart.

In fact, you didn’t even know what the man said to you until you saw Roma collapse into Clarke’s arms. All you hear is the ringing inside of your head as you glance around the spinning room, taking in everything around you.

The television spouted something on the news about another horrific experience in a faraway place that mattered little to you in this moment. In fact, nothing mattered right now except for those four fucking words...

Blinking a few times, you take your seat next to Clarke, watching as Roma cries into your wife’s arms.

What the fuck is happening?

“Clarke?” you ask, putting a hand on your wife’s shoulder. She turns to you, tears streaking down her cheeks as she leans her head down to your hand. “Are you alright?” your hand cups her face, leaning in to kiss her.

“I understand this is hard,” the doctor continues, leaning down to your level to place a hand on your hand resting on your knee. “But when you’re ready, the nurse will have papers for someone to sign.”

Swallowing deeply, you stare blankly at the man. “What?” you ask, his mouth opening slightly to speak before it closes again. “I don’t understand... Where’s my sister.”

Glancing around again, you make eye contact with Octavia who is ushering the doctor away as she lowers herself to her knees in front of you, placing her hands on your legs and looking you straight in the eyes.

And that’s when you hear it again...

Those four words...

And that’s when they finally catch...

She...

Didn’t...

Make...

It....

\---

**BELLAMY**

How many times can you receive this phone call? How many times can you make this trip? How many times in your life will you be ushered to a hospital with the false hope of finding a friend of yours safe and sound? How many times can you survive this?

Thankfully your sister called you on their way to the hospital so you only arrived two hours after them. Unfortunately, you hadn’t thought to check the update text that she sent thirty minutes ago until you walked into the waiting room...

And when you did, you no longer needed a warning...

You knew the exact outcome.

Taking a deep breath, you purse your lips, thoughts flooding through your mind but no words flowing as Octavia throws herself into your arms, her tears meeting your cold leather jacket as you stand completely upright, unable to move.

How many times can Lexa survive this?

“Subarachnoid hemorrhage,” Clarke mumbles to you as you take a seat next to her, her body looking as numb as yours feels. “Brain Aneurism...” Her words trail off as her hand slides over to meet yours. You haven’t taken your eyes off of the floor, counting each spot on the decorative tile... anything to keep yourself from drowning in the abyss of your own thoughts. “People survive them all of the time,” she continues and you allow her, knowing that this is her way of processing, even if it’s killing you. Tightening your grip on her hand, you try to drown out her voice, but her words are overpowering, forcing you to listen as they wrap themselves around your head. “But she refused to go in for scans... She would have been benched.”

Looking up from the floor at last, you scan the room before it hits you. “Where’s Lexa?”

Clarke glances around with you before panic spreads across her previously stone cold face.

“Where’s Lexa?”

\---

**LEXA**

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

She wasn’t supposed to die.

She wasn’t allowed to die.

She promised you that.

Years ago.

But she lied.

And she did.

And now you find yourself here, sitting on the curb outside of a Kansas City hospital, your knees pulled into your chest as the sunlight shines down on your face as if it doesn’t know that today is supposed to be dark.

“Fuck you,” you groan to the sun, taking as deep of a breath as you can through the softball feeling lump in your chest. You want to cry. You know that you’re supposed to cry, but nothing is even coming out.

Actually, you feel nothing.

And actually, you’re okay with that.

So when the sliding glass doors behind you open, you grumble under your breath, hoping it’s some lucky soul discharging with their new born baby or some shit.

But you’re not so lucky and this becomes apparent when Bellamy takes a seat beside you, running a hand through his shaggy hair before his voice turns to you, his eyes fixated on the ground below. “You can love someone so much. But you can never love people as much as you can miss them,” he quotes, taking a deep breath in, leaving the majority of the air in his lungs.

“Colin Singleton from An Abundance of Catherines,” you reply, a small snort exiting your nose as you begin counting the cigarette butts scattered just outside of hospital’s reach. “Didn’t think it would be up your alley.”

“It’s not,” he corrects you, lifting his head for the first time to look at you. Your eyes meet his, the clash of brown filling the area around you as the sun slips behind some clouds, giving you the moment of grey that you begged for just moments ago. “But it needed to be said.”

Pursing your lips, you inhale deeply again, finally feeling the mass in your chest breaking up as you begin breaking down, the darkness overtaking you with each additional breath. “I don’t understand,” you begin before everything falls from underneath you.

It feels like falling, you remember telling someone once when they asked you about your depression... In fact, you remember telling Tris that... in the hospital... after she almost lost you forever...

And now...

She...

Bellamy wraps his arms around you, pulling you back from the cliff that you’re teetering on just in time to keep you from slipping. “I’m not going to say that it’s going to be okay,” he begins, a tremble escaping his lips as he holds you. “But I’m going to tell you that we’ll survive. Because we will.”

The way the he speaks those last three words make you almost what to believe them.

Because.

We.

Will.

\---

**BELLAMY**

You can’t really bring yourself to say much in the way of comfort after you and Lexa return to the group in the waiting room. In fact, even after you all leave the hospital, piling into Roma’s living room and sitting in near silence, you can’t find words in you to match the emotions that are clawing their way out.

Your eyes remain stuck to the floor, afraid to make contact with anyone else. Making eye contact means facing their emotions and facing their emotions means feeling your own. But when Roma makes her way over to you, handing you a glass of water and you look up to thank her, your entire plan falls by the wayside.

She’s broken-- rightfully so.

And when your eyes meet, all you can think of is that stupid fucking conversation from three years ago.

_“Please Bellamy!” Tris groans from your living room floor, rolling around with her fingers wrapped around her feet. The high schooler is in a ball, her soccer sock covered legs rocking back and forth as she whines, begging you to break the law for her._

_“No dude, you’re going to get me arrested... Do you know how weird that would look?” You laugh at the small girl as she rolls to her side, throwing her body flat against the carpet._

_“I know, but...”_

_“No, Tris. Listen to this, okay?” you ask her, taking a sip of your water bottle before you cap it, placing the bottle on the table and leaning in to rest your elbows on your knees. “I’m sorry officer, I was just renting a hotel room for these two under-age girls here... Oh yes sir... I am an adult male.... Oh no, I don’t see the problem with this....”_

_“Goddamnit Bellamy Blake, we won’t get you arrested!” Tris is practically shouting at you as she curls up into her ball again, stomping her foot onto the floor while her arms wrap around her legs._

_“And how do you know that this girl even wants to go out with you?” You laugh at your friend’s sister. “I mean, does she even know what she’s signing up for? That’s a lot for someone who you aren’t even dating...”_

_“It’s perfectly planned, Bell,” she grumbles, beginning to recite her plan to you again._

_“I get it,” you cut the brunette off, watching as her freckled face scrunches in protest-- the same look Lexa gives you when you cut her short. “Dinner and blanket fort at the hotel. It’s cute and shit, but the answer is still no..”_

_Tris growls at you, standing and making her way into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle from you and Clarke’s fridge before she returns to her spot in the floor, pouting as she tears into the bottle, taking a large gulp and laying it beside her. “Other than legality,” she begins, taking a deep breath and obviously pondering her next words closely, “give me one reason why not.”_

_You sigh deeply, rubbing your eyes before you speak again. You weren’t winning this one-- that was becoming apparent. There’s no way that this child wasn’t related to Lexa and Lincoln. She fought better than the two of them combined. “Okay, look.... I don’t want your heart broken... You’re young and this girl...”_

_“Then let me do this!” Tris shouts, throwing her tan arms into the air. If it doesn’t work then I’ll let you say ‘I told you so’ and we’ll never speak of it again!”_

_Inhaling slowly, you begin to accept defeat, knowing that you weren’t going to win. “Fine,” you say, the young girl diving from her seat on the floor and into your arms, throwing her arms over your shoulders and kissing your cheek._

_“God, thank you!” she’s yelling into your ear as you pat her back, maintaining a safe distance from the awkward interaction. You’ve never hugged Tris before... and you’ve been alright with that until now. “Remember, don’t tell anyone... Not Lincoln... Not Lexa... No one, okay?”_

_You nod as she pushes herself off of you, giving you one more kiss on the forehead before turning away._

_What the fuck did you just get yourself into?_

But it didn’t work like you thought it would, and Tris was right. Everything went according to plans and Roma fell just as in love with her as Tris was with the quiet, reserved brunette. After a night of room service dinner in the hotel room and building of blanket forts because “Roma never had anyone to build them with growing up so she never got to experience how awesome blanket forts are,” they began dating officially, whatever that actually means.

But none of that mattered now-- not to you.

That small question of legality...

The small secret you kept...

None of that mattered as you sat here, holding the hand of the woman who spent a night with your roommate’s girlfriend’s sister in a hotel that you booked in your name, watching Disney movies inside of a blanket fort that they made with hotel sheets.

“I’m sorry,” you finally speak, Roma attempting to smile from the corner of her lips before her eyes fall to the floor. You take the glass from her and watch as she disappears into the back, closing a door at the end of the hallway behind her. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, this time softer, into the feeling of emptiness around the room.

“Hey,” Octavia snorts a small, fake and forced laugh as she starts to speak, her eyes scanning the room for life. “Remember that first game that we all went to where Tris decked that girl for talking shit?”

There’s a tiny laugh from Clarke as she joins in, responding to your sister’s attempts to bring everyone back from whatever darkness is engulfing them.

Honestly, you can’t hear them though. You’re too busy making your way down the hall, your knuckles meeting the only closed door as you turn the door knob, opening it to find Roma sitting on the corner of the bed, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders.

“Hey,” you softly speak into the air, closing the door behind you before you approach the young girl. You’ve never really noticed her hands before. They were much like yours with skin peeled back around her nails, the tips swollen and red. She’s a picker, like you. “Can I sit with you?” You ask as a small roar of laughter erupts from the room down the hall. “I’m not really in a mood to laugh.”

She nods, her eyes not leaving the floor, and you take your seat on the bed next to her, your hands clenching tight to your knees. “You know, I never really got the chance...”

“Thanks,” her quiet, raspy voice speaks over the trembles in her chest. Your head turns to her, your face cocking sideways before she speaks again. “You rented the hotel for us,” she snorts softly, turning her eyes towards you. They’re flooding with tears, the deep brown reflecting off of the pools forming just above her bottom eye lid. “Thanks for that.” You smile, nodding as she turns back to the floor, clenching her hands tighter and you notice that she’s holding something. Glancing around at her, you try to not be too obvious, but apparently you fail as she unrolls her hand to you, handing off a small, tattered napkin with the words ‘I didn’t mean to fall in love tonight,’ written across it in Tris’ sloppy handwriting, looking more like Lexa’s than it ever has.

“What’s this?” you ask her as you carefully take the paper, holding it as if it would disintegrate at any moment . The black script has bled away from its original source and there are folds and tears along the edges, but it’s obviously been cared for, specifically folded in the same way every time.

As you hand it back to Roma, she takes a deep breath, lifting her eyes to you again. “Can I just talk to you?” She asks, you nodding in return. “When she picked me up for our date, I thought we were just going to coffee. I mean, we had been going out every day after practice to talk over coffee... That’s all it was supposed to be...” She swallows deeply and folds the napkin within her hand before beginning again. “She was extremely patient with me as I told her about everything. She was the only one to ever hear some of my baggage. I kissed her one day after coffee... Like, I leaned in to her and kissed her, but yet she apologized to me.” She laughs again, explaining the rain as it fell onto the hood of Tris’ car on the night that they first kissed.

Roma continues her story and as you close your eyes, it’s as if you were there. The attention that she pays to detail reminds you of the way that Tris talked about her that day after their date when she met with you to pay you back for the hotel. Taking a deep breath, you swallow down your tears.

-

_The rain continued to pour as the heat exited the vents of the car, not quickly enough for either of us as we rubbed our hands together, freezing in the chill of October. It wasn’t even cold, it was just the rain. I laughed at some stupid joke that she made, not even really wanting to laugh as my heart was still too heavy from the conversation that we just had. How can she be so light after I just explained to her that my father walked out on my mother? That he walked out on me? It didn’t make sense. I wanted to take her by the collar of her shirt and shake her, shouting at her that I was broken. Why didn’t she see this?_

_We continue to talk for probably another hour, accompanied only by the rushing passers-by as they fled the downpour outside of the safety of her car. We used the excuse that I didn’t want to get rained on but the truth was that I didn’t want to let her go. After a brief moment of silence after a particularly deep conversation about religion, I turned to Tris, looking her in her eyes as she smiled back, her eyes flicking back and forth between mine. She was good like that. When I looked at her, she looked back. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” I begged of her, reaching a hand out to touch hers. Our bodies had been turned towards each other the entire time that we were in the car, even if our head and eyes faced forward mainly. This should have been the first warning sign. I should have known that I was going to kiss her solely because of that._

_She smiled back and laughed at me a little bit, but it didn’t hurt my feelings or anything... It never hurt me when she laughed. “Who would I tell?” she asked me, shrugging her shoulders. “I swear, I only talk to like 5 people; you’re one of them, and another is in a coma.” She laughed about it, but I know it was an act. She still felt the burn._

_The silence that lingered between us drew me in. The way that she bit her lip drew me in. Fuck, I was drawn in completely, if by nothing else, by the fact that she was fucking breathing at that point. Leaning in, I kissed her and immediately my brain went blank. Nothing else mattered, and when her lips reciprocated, I melted._

_Fuck, I feel weird telling you about all of this, but I don’t even know how to stop._

_When we pulled away from the kiss, she apologized... how crazy is that? I kissed her and yet she apologized. Her hand fell from my cheek as she mumbled some stuff about that not being her kiss to steal. That’s just like her though, shouldering everything on her own._

_I left the car not too long after that, but here’s the thing-- it wasn’t awkward. It’s not like you always expect it to be. I was able to continue conversation with her. I was able to go to practice and see her and sit next to her in class and even go to coffee every day and I never felt awkward about kissing her... It was like it was the next step._

_And then it happened. She called me and asked me out to coffee one night that we didn’t have practice. I didn’t necessarily think that this was too weird-- she was going through a lot... you all were... but when we passed straight by the coffee shop, I started flooding her with questions and instead of answering, she just smiled. It made me want to smile._

_And when we pulled into a hotel parking lot, she turned on this damn song... I think that I have a CD around here of it..._

_-_

You want to stop her. You want to hold Roma and tell her to breathe. You can tell that she’s manic, but you can’t bring yourself to move, too enticed by her tale and too overwhelmed by your own grief. When she starts the song on the speakers in the corner of room and Halsey’s voice floods your ears, the tears don’t stop at just the corner of your eyes.

No, they cascade down as you tighten your own arms around your body, listening as Roma continues her tale over the sound of the song, each battling for dominance over your emotions.

-

_We listened to this song once in the car and then it came on the playlist in the hotel.... and then it just turned into us listening to this song just because we could._

**_You were dancing in your tube socks in our hotel room. Flashing those eyes like highway signs. Light one up and hand it over, rest your head upon my shoulder. I just wanna feel your lips against my skin_ **

_Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. I mean, I thought that it was weird that she was bringing me to a hotel. It wasn’t even like a skeezy motel like high school kids always go to. No, this was classy shit-- and it was all thanks to you._

**_White sheets, bright lights, crooked teeth, and the night life. You told me this is right where it begins. But your lips hang heavy underneath me. And I promised myself I wouldn’t let you complete me_ **

_She handed me the card when we got to the 8 th floor and told me to go in before her. When I opened the door there was a giant pile of blankets on the floor directly in front of the beds, which was weird. I mean, why would they be on the floor? I turned to ask her, but she told me “no questions, just go inside.” I’m glad that I listened because it got better._

**_I’m trying not to let it show, that I don’t want to let this go. Is there somewhere you can meet me? Cause I clutched your arms like stairway railings. And you clutched my brain and eased my ailing_ **

_Walking into the room, she closed the door behind us and began explaining that it broke her heart that I never got to build a blanket fort growing up. I laughed and continued to make my way into the room. She had room service delivered and we spent the entire night building a fort out of sheets, and even called downstairs for more when we wanted to expand. I’m sure they were exhausted with us by the end of the night, but when I woke up the next morning, I woke up surrounded by pillows, bed sheets, couch cushions, and Tris’ hair and I had never been happier in my life._

**_You’re writing lines about me, romantic poetry. Your girl's got red in her cheeks. Cause we’re something she can’t see. And I try to refrain but you’re stuck in my brain. All I do is cry and complain, because second’s not the same_ **

_And I don’t even care that this song is totally about an affair or anything like that. I don’t care that Tris and I didn’t have sex that night or anything like that. Shit, I asked her about halfway through that night what she was expecting to happen between us and her reply was, “I don’t know. I mean, I know what I hope happens after tonight, but that’s not what you asked me.” How fucking perfect of a response is that? How fucking perfect of a human being was she?_

**_I’m sorry but I fell in love tonight. I didn't mean to fall in love tonight. You’re looking like you fell in love tonight. Could we pretend that we’re in love?_ **

_And when I left that hotel room and when I left her car the next day, I knew one thing for sure. There’s not many things in this world that I’ve ever been sure of, but Tris brought with her the first bit of confidence and positive assurance in my life. If nothing else, when I was dropped off at my door and she didn’t even try to kiss me, I knew that I had to have her in my life. I mean, she didn’t even try to kiss me. I had to text her and ask her to come back, and after I kissed her, I asked her why she didn’t. Do you know what her answer was? It was, “I don’t want you to feel forced.” How fucking wonderful? Do you know how great we had it?_

_-_

At her last phrase, Roma finally loses it. After holding herself together for the same song on repeat five times while she recounted the first night of the rest of her life for you, your friend crumbles onto the floor, clawing at her denim covered legs while she inhales air rapidly, sucking in more than she’s exhaling.

“Hey,” you try to catch her on the way down, falling beside the younger brunette. “Hey, I’m here.” You pull her head into your chest and realize that this is the first time that you are actually hugging Roma. You two have been in each other’s lives for over three years now and you’ve never actually embraced the girl.

Fuck, if you’re going to be honest with yourself, you’ve never held a lengthy conversation with her before, but it was the same with Lexa for a long time...

And then something happened...

And you shared a moment of heartache...

And you acquired your best friend.

Shit... who’s to say that this is any different...

The girl sucks back her tears, pulling her head from your shoulder as she wipes her face with the sleeve of her jacket. “I’m sorry. I’m... I just... I’m sorry,” she stammers, wiping the mascara from her face.

“No,” you try to laugh, the sound not breaking through your own tears. “Please don’t apologize.”

Your request barely makes it through your lips before the woman reaches up, wiping your own cheeks. “I know about you,” she says to you, her eyes falling to the sleeves that are being pulled over her fingers by her thumbs. “Tris told me about your baggage. It’s okay to be weak too.” She sighs deeply, biting her upper lip. “I need you to be weak too, okay?”

You nod, not really understanding, but knowing that, more than anything, Roma just needs someone. “Let’s go,” you finally say after a moment of silence where the both of you attempt to steady your breathing. Lifting yourself to your feet, you offer her your hand, glancing down at the girl through your curly hair in front of your face. “Let’s go be with the others.”

She takes your hand and you take a deep breath, pulling her up and walking towards the door.

\---

**LEXA**

When the doorbell of the diner rang, it took everything in you to not scream. Honestly, this day couldn’t be any longer. You wanted to be anywhere but here.

Fuck, you wanted to be anything but this.

But with all of the time that you had been taking off for school and the pregnancy and being hospitalized, you honestly couldn’t budget any more days off.

Which is why you found yourself here... four days after the hospitalization of your sister... three days after the death of your sister... two days after the terrible realization that she’s gone... one day after you put her in the ground... at work.

Honestly, it was just like you... just like you that you’ve always been. Your fingers itched with the desire to claw yourself out of your skin. Your mind raced with the depression, keeping up as best as you could, but inevitably drowning at every turn. How do people survive deaths? You know how you did it last time...

Tris...

Tris and Lincoln...

But with neither of them here, it was becoming more and more apparent that you were incapable... you are incapable of taking care of yourself.

“You’ve got company,” Carl calls over to you from his place behind the grill, looking between you and the land outside of the pick-up window.

You want to shout at him. You want to tell him that you know. You want to remind him that you’re not deaf and that you could hear the bell and that you’re totally capable of doing your job...

Instead, when you open your mouth to speak, you simply exhale, inhaling again as your eyes close, trying to calm your inner storm. It wasn’t working, but you could try.

Nodding over to the chubby, grease covered man, you allow him to smile half-heartedly back at you without any protests. He knows. He knew Tris from the moment you started working here for the first time in high school. When you moved back after your parents’ death, he took a liking to you and Tris, always sitting with your sister and chatting about soccer and life with her while she waited on you to close up shop.

Fuck, just two weeks before, you were making fun of the man for approaching his 50th birthday next year. Now, you were doing everything you could to keep yourself from exploding on one of the few people who cared for your family after the accident.

Pushing the door into the dining room, you take a deep breath with your eyes closed before you exit onto the main floor, forcing a smile and clicking your pen.

That is until your eyes meet hers.

Blue.

The half-smile that exited her lips as her hand extended towards you, fingers gripping loosely around the string of a balloon that read ‘Happy Birthday’ was eclipsed only by the color radiating from her eyes... those eyes that always lifted you up or brought you to your knees.

Blue.

“Happy birthday,” your wife says in an almost whisper as Roma shuffles behind her, box in hand. “We wanted to surprise you, but someone didn’t wake up in time...”

“Hey!” Bellamy shouts from the booth section, spreading some sequins across the tables as he looked back at Clarke. “I tried, but it’s hard when someone texts you eight-thousand times to make sure that you bought the right color of streamers. Fuck...” The shaggy haired man smiles over at you before laying the small baggie of sequins on the table, walking over to where you stand and wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He smells like cigarettes and last night’s aftershave, making you cringe slightly as you inhale. “Happy birthday buddy,” he whispers to you, planting a small kiss on the top of your head before squeezing you tight once more and returning to his booth of sequins and sparkles.

Clarke finally moves from her spot in the doorway, closing the distance between you two, her lips meeting yours gently. “We would have been here earlier but,” she begins with her forehead on yours, her eyes closed as her words flow from her lips. Before she can finish, you push yourself against her, stopping her words with your lips against hers, you hand reaching up to cup her cheek.

“Thank you,” you mumble through the thin air between you, listening as her breath catches in a small chuckle. “I’m glad you’re here.” You smile into her laugh, kissing her again before you hear a slight cough behind you. Turning against your wife, you see Carl, towering over you with white apron still wrapped around his burly frame and a small party hat on his head.

The man smiles, his buzzed head almost too big for the pink and green polka dotted hat that is held tightly to him with an elastic band. “They’ve been calling in for over a week now to plan this thing,” he chuckles as Roma approaches him, handing him a small noise maker which he sticks in his mouth and blows into, the green and pink streamers exploding up with a loud, high pitched squeal. Quickly shoving the device into his pocket, he mumbles a small, “no, no,” over and over again, shaking his head. “I agreed that you probably needed this after this week.” Carl wraps an arm around you and you lean into him, taking in the scent of French fries and cheese burgers that always follow you around no matter where you go. “I think you all need this,” he rubs the top of your head before turning away and back into the kitchen when Roma approaches you.

“Hey sis,” she says with a smile, the rings around her eyes becoming more apparent with each step she takes. Her face looks as puffy as yours, her eyes swollen and red, exhausted with the crying that has taken place and with the thought of the tears she’s yet to shed. You and Roma rarely shared words-- not  a lot of them at least. She was like you in that regard. There were really only six people on earth that you ever talked to in great context, and three of those were now buried in the cemetery down the street. She reaches the box out to you and you take it, your hand grazing hers before the chill in her finger tips causes you to withdraw quickly. “How are you feeling?” she asks you before letting go of the box. Her eyes are locked onto yours, the darkness in her pupils spreading across her cheeks for a brief moment as she swallows deeply.

She sees you.

She sees Tris.

“I’m fine,” you lie, swallowing deeply before taking a breath, nodding at your sister-in-law.

“Yeah?” she asks, releasing the box into your hands.  You nod again, biting down on your upper lip until you taste blood from the same spot that hasn’t healed in four days. You stare at it for a moment before your glance shifts back to Roma. “Well open it,” she laughs, turning around to look at your friends. Bellamy is still fixated at the booths, having shifted his attention to streamers now that are lining the walls and chairs. Clarke is laughing with Octavia who just entered the diner, waving to you from the corner as they lay out some plates and cut a cake into pieces.

Your lips crack into a small smile as you exhale slowly pulling at tape that was keeping the red and black box closed. Peeling the thin cardboard lid back, your exhale turns into a sharp inhale that causes you to cringe, the pain returning to your chest again as if someone stabbed a knife straight through the center of your heart.

A small envelope rested on top of the red tissue paper, your name written across the top in Tris’ signature ‘fourth-grade boy’ handwriting. You’d know those letters anywhere. She never changed. Whether it was her book reports that you proofread while your parents were at work, or notes she passed to you during weddings of distant family members or family-friends that neither of you could care any less about-- you’d never forget what her hand writing looked like. It was the beginning of every letter that she mailed to you while you were away at college, all packed in a shoebox in your closet under polaroid’s of your family and friends growing up. It was the script scrawled across green and yellow sticky notes that kept you grounded when you wanted nothing more than to fall apart. It was every Christmas card, every gift tag, every note on the inside of a pre-packed lunch.

It was Tris.

As the tears swelled up in your eyes, Roma places a hand on your arm, her warm stare meeting yours. “You can read it later,” she tells you, a wave of relief rushes over you as you pocket the small envelope, moving your trembling left hand to tackle the tissue paper and its contents. Pulling away at the thin paper, your fingers meet the fabric before your eyes and immediately you know what’s inside.

You had pestered her for months about it. You asked for weeks whether or not she loved you enough to have one made for you. It wasn’t that she didn’t love you-- these things just take time-- but that didn’t stop you from annoying her. It was what you did. It was always what you did.

Withdrawing your hand with the jersey between your fingers, you allow Roma to take the empty box from your hands, dropping the red tissue to the floor as you unfold the shirt. The number 19 is printed across the jersey, Tris’ number, under the name that you share with your sister. WOODS, the bold, black letters scream out to you, reminding you of the blood flowing through your veins.

Before you can stop yourself, your breath is shuddering and your hands are trembling while you pull the jersey close to your chest, burrying your face deep into the fabric, breathing in and out quickly, trying to remain as quiet as possible.

You’re failing.

“Hey,” Roma’s voice echoes into the darkness around you. “Hey, it’s alright,” she mumbles between her own shakes and catches. “Lexa,” her fingertips find your arm and you’re unable to stand anymore, collapsing into her as she lowers you slowly to the floor.

Of course your display attracts the attention of everyone around you. Of course they all begin making their way to help you. It’s what they do.

But it’s not what you need.

You need to breathe.

You need space.

You need to wake up from this terrible nightmare.

You don’t need Bellamy’s hand on your arm, but that’s exactly what you get, even if you can’t feel it.

“Back up,” he urges everyone, his words biting into the ringing echo that is surrounding your brain. Is that awful noise inside of your head? “Move,” he pushes his sister back who then grabs Clarke to keep her from getting to you. “Hey Lexa, you with me?” he asks, receiving a shake of your head as a reply. You didn’t even move your head. It moved on its own. “Okay,” he snorts a small laugh through the thin opening of his mouth. You’re blinking so rapidly that you can barely see him, the darkness of the back of your eyelids comforting as you feel the spiraling around you. “Hey, look at me.”

His warm hand against your cheek is the only thing that you can feel as your eyes scan the room around you, nothing focusing strongly enough to maintain your attention. Then your eyes meet his and suddenly you’re fixated. It’s like listening to a whammy bar in a poorly organized rock song-- everything is all echoed and reverberating around you, the sounds bouncing off of the walls and bodies that surround you until they fill your ears with the confusion, chaos breeding chaos in your head.

“Hey, do you see me?” Bellamy’s eyes widen as he kneels completely in front of you, leaning onto his front knee to close this distance before taking the sides of your head in his grip. You try to fight back, but his fingers lock in behind your neck, holding your head in place to stare straight on into his eyes. “Name three things you see,” he says to you, his words the only clear thing that you can hear.

You open your mouth to speak, but no words surface. Instead, you feel like you’re spitting sand as you attempt to speak, the dryness in your mouth forcing you to shut it again quickly.

“No, three things you see,” he reiterates, giving you head a slightly shake.

“You,” you mumble after a swallow, your lips tearing as you force them open. “balloons,” the second word comes a little easier. “Clarke.” Your wife exhales a little catch, the left corner of her lip turning up into a small smile. You try to do the same but your face is frozen in the only position that allows for you to breathe right now-- mouth slightly open, expression bare of emotion.

“Okay, what do you hear? Three things... Go...”

Listening carefully around you, you say the first thing that comes to your mind without thinking, “chaos.”

“No,” Bellamy corrects you, moving a hand to your arm while his right one stay planted on your left cheek. “That’s not real. Name something real....”

“Breathing,” you correct yourself, exhaling with your word. He nods, ushering you forward. “Sizzle.... Music...”

Bellamy smiles slightly, his eyes shifting over to Clarke quickly before back at you. “And what do you smell?”

Your hands tremble as your body forces a finger up to tap your nose. You don’t even know why it does it, but you do. “I smell food,” you say, the group laughing slightly.

“Of course you do,” Bellamy jokes, “and?”

With his brown eyes shifting between yours, you continue, “lilac... you.”

“Well I’m not Lilac... that would be your wife,” Your best friend continues to poke fun at you as he continues, his other hand finally moving to your arm as well, holding you in place as you shift to sit up right.

You can feel your pulse slowing, the blood rushing back from your head and suddenly you’re more exhausted than you’ve been in days. “I feel your hands,” you continue, knowing what the next step is. “The tile... exhausted... I feel exhausted.”

“Good,” Bellamy says, turning his attention back to Clarke. “She’s all yours dude... Sit her down and get her some water,” he says, releasing your arms.

You sway a little bit against Roma’s grasp before she and Clarke help lift you to your feet, walking you over to a small table in the corner where Octavia had already brought you a glass. The water was beginning to form rings on the table the moment you picked it up and put it back down, creating artwork to accompany your melt-down.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, your hands finally releasing their clenched grip on the jersey that you’ve held this whole time. Your knuckles ached as your fingers unfolded around the fabric, the jersey falling to your knees.

“No,” Roma begins, pushing her hands into your grip, interlocking her fingers with yours. “You are not allowed to apologize for feeling, do you understand?” The brunette’s stare is locked onto yours and she’s unrelenting, making you wonder how many times Tris had gotten this look before. “We all love you Lexa… we always have. You can be a good person with a kind heart and still say no.” She exhales gently, blowing a piece of hair from her face. It falls back in front of her eyes and she groans before you remove your finger from hers, pushing it back behind her ear and returning your hands to her grip. “You can say no when we ask if you're alright. It's okay to not be okay... I don't think we'll ever be okay... Please don't be stronger than you have to be.”

You can tell she’s struggling. You can tell she’s biting back tears with each word as they fill the air around you, the weight of every letter carrying you back down to the ground. You simply nod, biting your lower lip until you feel the skin pull. “We’re going to make it?” you say, the comment coming out as more of a question than not.

Before she can answer you, the door to the diner swings open, hundreds of balloons flowing in through the doors as the sound of rubber sliding across the metal door frame makes your cringe. Wiping your eyes, you stand reaching for Clarke’s hand just in time to see Raven pushing her way past the balloons. “I hear there’s a party here,” she says, her eyes scanning the room. “Ooh, tough crowd,” she jokes, limping her way across the room to you. “I’m sorry Lexa,” she begins, her arms wrapping themselves around your neck and pulling you in before you can even embrace her back. “I’m so sorry.”

There’s a hitch in her tone that you notice just barely before she coughs it off, releasing you only to embrace your wife next to you.  “We didn’t know you were coming,” you smile, taking the brunette in your grasp again.

“Yeah, neither did she,” a deep voice resounds from the doorway behind Raven. Wick walks closer, carrying a bag in hand before he hands if off to you, linking an arm around Raven’s torso. “All of you people are terrible at secrets.”

As the small gathering continues, you find yourself at random moments gripping tightly to the jersey. More times than not you tell yourself to put it down, but at the end of the night, you’re still holding it in your left hand as you wish everyone goodbye.

\---

 

 


	11. I am a piece of shit

And I accidentally deleted my tumblr so if we were followers please go add me back. Shaneycakes-1131


	12. OCTOBER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY AT LAST IT'S UP!
> 
> I promise I didn't forget. I had to take a small hiatus after the last chapter because I was so incredibly emotionally drained (as I'm sure you all were too haha) but it's back. So please accept this 21k word apology :-)
> 
> This chapter probably seems a little scattered and disconnected, but I promise there's a purpose and all those little loose ends will be tied together soon... 
> 
> So here it is! 
> 
> CHECK OUT THE SOUNDTRACK WHICH WILL BE UPDATED SOON: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4
> 
> ADD ME ON TUMBLR: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

**OCTOBER**

**CLARKE**

This realization took you longer than you should have and something inside of you felt like the punchline of a bad joke. I mean, there were all the signs...

The work schedules...

Her moving...

The eyes made between them when passing through the hallways...

And somehow you missed it...

You failed to see it all along...

Somehow you missed that your mother was fucking your boss...

That was until you caught them in the act-- a terrifying experience if you had ever had one.

It played out exactly like every movie that you’ve ever seen. You were supposed to meet her at her house for brunch. Sitting outside in her driveway for fifteen minutes while she refused to answer texts became exhausting and you made your way inside, face buried in your phone where Lexa was sending you color pallets for the nursery that she and Bellamy were occupying themselves with today. She kept insisting blue but you wanted brown-- funny how each of you argued for the eye color of the other. And calling out for your mother into the silence, that’s when you heard it...

The lack of silence.

In fact, it was anything but a silence...

And the sound of a small moan escaping your mother’s lungs before Kane’s voice carried a slur of profanities followed by the resonances of scurrying and panic was enough to make you gag.

With your fingers wrapped tightly around your phone, you turned quickly on your heel, pushing through the uncomfortable tightness that was building in your body.

“Oh shit,” you mumble repeatedly, pulling at the door handle before you hear her voice again.

“Clarke?” she asks, calling you back inside just as your first foot touches down onto the welcome mat below.

Welcome...

What a funny word for what’s happening...

What did she think was going to happen?

Did she actually believe you’d turn around?

“Clarke!” she calls out again, this time closer. Closing the door behind you, you move quickly, repeating the same phrase over and over again.

“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit....”

Slamming the car into reverse, you speed from your mother’s driveway, peeling out quicker than usual but hell-bent and determined to escape from this situation.

This was just too much for you to handle right now.

Just when you reach the interstate, your hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel, the blue and red flashing lights behind you start screaming loudly into you backseat. Your “Oh shit”s turn into “OH SHIT!”s , your fingers managing to find the blinker that you use entirely too frequently as you merge over into the shoulder, anxiety forming a bubble in your chest.

This is the end.

Lexa’s going to flip....

Your mother is fucking Kane and you’re getting pulled over for going god knows how fast...

This is the end.

This is how you go.

\---

**LEXA**

The first text that you get makes you smile.

 **The Wife (10:42AM):** I swear to god Lexa Griffin-Woods, I will eat you alive if you paint that room blue.

Without hesitation, your fingers dance across the screen with your simply reply before you slide the phone into your hoodie pocket, sliding your sleeves up to just below your elbows as you turn towards your friend. Glancing him over once while he is distracted by the baby planning magazine in front of him, you can’t fight the small turn of your lips as they crack into a smile at the sight of the curly haired man, a streak of white drywall caulking outlining his jaw while the spackling from the ceiling joins the freckles on his cheeks. You probably looked just as disgusting, but something about the matting in his hair and the way that every bead of swear across his neck wrote out his devotion to your family made your heart melt a little more.

Glancing up for a brief moment, he double-takes, his expression changing the second go round as he lifts an eyebrow against you, a small smirk writing itself across his face. “What?” he asks you, flipping the page as his eyes maintain their line of sight with you.

“Nothing,” you say with a small chuckle. “Just laughing at your face.”

Snorting the air through his nostrils, Bellamy tosses the book over at you, the pages fleeing the fragile binding on impact with your shoulder. “Whatever, creeps,” he jokes, lifting his body from the floor and offering you a hand that you immediately take. “You and the princess decide on a color yet, or do I need to go get the cement for the driveway?” the question reminds you that you did promise that you would finish your driveway with him as soon as the nursery was complete.

“Driveway,” you respond simply, pulling your vibrating phone from your pocket after releasing his paint covered hand. Swiping the screen to unlock, you smile at the next text from Clarke as well, not even attempting to hide it from him anymore.

 **Lexa (10:44AM):** promise?

 **The Wife (10:57AM):** it wouldn’t be the first time, now would it?

Without even replying, you return the phone to your kangaroo pouch and follow Bellamy to the front door, watching as he walks carefully to avoid the walls around you. That’s all either of you need-- Clarke to come home and find drywall caulking and paint residue smudged across the hallway. “I’m going to get us some beers,” he says, retreating into the kitchen as you continue towards the front door, smiling when you separate.

This is what it’s all about...

These moments right here.

\---

**BELLAMY**

This is possibly one of the hardest things that you’ve ever had to do. How do you sit there and tell your best friend that you’re leaving? How do you tell her that after everything she’s been put through, you’re tapping out? How do you tell her that you can’t handle it anymore and you just need to go?

Turning the corner into the kitchen, you make one quick glance, clearing your surroundings before you head falls into your hands. They massage your eyes almost on their own; the palms of your hands trailing down the sides of your face to your jaw. Taking a deep breath, you stand again, shaking your thoughts clear before reaching into the fridge and grabbing the two bottles. It’s like you can see them-- every thought that you just released from your brain. They’re all floating just in front of your face, and yet, nothing seems to make sense. Even with everything outlined directly in front of you, nothing is actually clear enough to see. The idea came to you when you woke up to silence yet again. For the past two months, this has been the theme. For nearly three years, you awoke to a soft breathing on your neck or ice cold feet against your legs... but for the last two months, you’ve been alone, and the silence was getting old.

It was like a terrible movie with a wonderful soundtrack. It was pain and suffering made better only by the sounds that broke you even deeper, cutting wide and leaving the wounds in the open air. As your playlists shuffled through all of the songs that sang to your heart, words never meant anything more than the anthem of your breaking. As the books that you read cycled the same 26 letters in different combinations to lull your mind into another world, the plot never spoke anything more than the destruction of everything you’ve know.

Noah Gundersen, Niykee Heaton, Rihanna, The Fray, Silverstein, Breathe Carolina, Ed Sheeran, Greg Laswell, Lydia, Soles, The Frames, The Spill Canvas, Stateless, Damien Rice, Sufjan Stevens, Mayday Parade.....

Nothing helped...                              

J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Agatha Christie, James Patterson, Leo Tolstoy, J.R.R. Tolkien, R.L. Stein, Mark Twain, Edgar Allan Poe, Dr. Seuss, C.S. Lewis, James Joyce, William Faulkner, Fyodor Dostoyevsky...

Nothing helped...

And the only conclusion that you’ve come to... the only thing that’s made any sense... the only light at the end of this tunnel...

It was simple...

It was time to leave.

“Bell?” Lexa’s voice calls through the open door from the outside, the chill of fall entering quickly behind it, carrying her concerned tone to you. Lifting your head, you glance around quickly, reaching for the bottle opener and popping the metal tops off of the beers.

“Yeah?” you say in your most convincing tone, not waiting for her response before you continue. “I couldn’t find your bottle opener in this damn house,” the lie comes almost too easily. “Do you guys ever clean?”

Your feet carry you towards the door, the toes of your left foot pulling it closed behind you as you exit into the gravel driveway, laughing as you stumble slightly on a rock. They’ve been in this damn house for over a year and you haven’t even found time to fix this fucking driveway.

“Shut up, asshole,” Lexa laughs, taking the beer from your hand and taking a quick swig of it. The concrete is already prepared and you can’t help but smile as a bead of sweat rolls down the side of your best friend’s neck. Taking a sip of your own beer, you keep her in your sights before taking a deep breath and nudging her with your shoulder.

“Let’s get this finished before your wife gets home,” you smile, the rim of the bottle still on your lips. Now would be the best time to tell her.

Now would be the worst time to tell her.

\---

**CLARKE**

You don’t know how he did it, but some way or another, Kane found you. In all of the 118,000 people in this fucking city, your boss managed to find you at a corner coffee shop, your mocha pushed gently to your lips as the steam dances around your nose, filling your sinuses with the sweet aroma of vanilla and caramel.

Fuck what they said about 200mg of caffeine being the maximum for pregnancy....

You’ll drink as much as you like right now...

But then he comes in...

And he pulls out the chair across from you...

And he sits down without asking...

And folding his hands in front of his mouth, he just stares at you, eyes dark and deep, unrelenting against yours.

When the waitress comes by to take his order, he orders a coffee black, two sugars-- just like your mother does-- before turning his attention to his phone quickly before looking back at you again.

Fuck...

Your eyes manage to find a spot on the table, a ring made by your untouched glass of water, and you fixate on that-- anything to take your mind off of this. Turning the glass around on the ring a few times, you take in all of the sounds around you.

Immediately, there’s Kane’s breathing. It’s light and soft as he inhales and exhales, filling the air around him with carbon dioxide-- what a douche.

Then there’s the person typing two tables away. Her fingers glide across the laptop and you can’t even be mad, even though it sounds like she’s pounding away at the next great novel. You can’t be mad at her because that’s less energy to expend on Kane.

After that, there’s the man flipping through the newspaper, the kids talking about politics, the barista laughing at some customer’s joke, the coffee grinder doing its job...

Then there’s you-- the fuming in your mind loud enough to drown out all of the above...

Except for him.

Opening his mouth to speak, he closes it quickly when you meet him with a single word, the force in your tone enough to knock him off his feet. “Don’t,” you interrupt him mid-breath, silencing him before it’s too late.

But he doesn’t listen. “But I am… Look,” the sigh leaves your lips. “I know you’re struggling with a lot of things,” _no you don’t_ , “and I know you’ve got a lot on your plate,” _and you’re only adding to it_ , “but tearing each other and yourself apart isn’t the way to get through this.”

Rolling your eyes up to see the man’s face again, you lower your coffee mug, a small snort exiting your nostrils just as the white porcelain touches the wooden table. “This isn’t about anything but you and my mother, Kane.”

“Well, that sounds fake,” the man laughs, taking his coffee from the barista with a smile before turning back to you. “But if you want to blame somebody, I’ll be that.” Maintaining eye contact with the man, you study his face, wondering what his objective is.

“Why?”

“Because, you need a villain sometimes, Clarke.” He continues to stare at you, his eyes bleeding concern as they stand unfaltering against your shifting stare. “Look, I get it-- you want to shoulder the weight of the world, but you can’t always be the villain. Let me have this one.” A small smile cracks across his lips as the bell to the coffee shop entrance rings and your mother appears beside you, a hand finding its way to Kane’s shoulder. Standing, he offers her his chair, handing her the coffee after it finds his lips one last time. “Remember what I said, Clarke. I’m willing to shoulder it.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you with your mother to take his place, her strong brown eyes staring you down even deeper than his had. There were words coming from her mouth before you could even swallow your own, but you couldn’t hear them-- not over your itching desire to leave.

Until she said the one phrase that made it all make sense.

“I love him, Clarke, but you will always be my first concern.”

Glancing up at last, your eyes meet hers and everything melts away. There’s no longer the woman typing or the man with the newspaper or the kids or the shop workers. It was just you and your mother--the prodigal mom who came back when you needed her the most, even if she wasn’t always around.

She’s here now...

She has been...

And honestly, that’s all that matters.

\---

**BELLAMY**

You can’t do it.

After all of the hype and all of the pep talks and the useless banter to buy you time, you can’t even bring yourself to say the words “I’m moving.” So after everything, you slide the helmet over your head, mount your motorcycle, and push away from the curb, zipping into the street and around the corner to the highway that would take you to your house filled with boxes half-filled with all of your belongings.

After everything, you can’t find it in you to break her any more.

\---

**LEXA**

It should have been easy to continue with your productivity. I mean, Clarke was with her mother, the driveway was drying, it was still early in the afternoon, and the weather was nice. That all happened before your fingertips stumbled across that pale blue envelope with coffee stains and creases that held your name scribbled in a familiar print that brought you to your knees like a punch in the gut.

It had been nearly a month and the jersey with the last name that you shared now only with a set of stones in a graveyard on the outskirts of town in bold print was still in the box on your dresser. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at it-- much less wear it-- and the same went for this note that sat in your passenger seat for weeks until the floorboards attempted to consume it-- burying it under drive-thru cups and Starbucks coffee stirrers. With your body on the cool pavement of the street below, you pull your knees to your chest, eyeballing the off centered lettering  on the front-- 4 simple letters that you knew all too well but held a totally different meaning in his moment.

How the fuck could your name cause so much internal turmoil?

Taking a sharp inhale to the check, you shudder out the air as you flip the envelope over in your hands, your thumb fingering just under the glued flap. If you opened it, the seal would be broken and that last fragment of Tris that remained untouched would be tainted. Nothing would be perfect anymore...

As if it ever was.

The seconds that you spent sitting in that same position, that same envelope in that same place in your same hands turned to minutes and felt like hours as you listened to cars pass by one block over, wondering if they had any clue what this meant to you.

How could they? They didn’t know you. They didn’t know Tris. They didn’t know that the universe was a bastard for what it had done....

She was perfect.

She was flawless.

She was sinless.

And yet...

She was the first to be taken...

No, it couldn’t come for you. It couldn’t accept all of the wrong that you had done as an offering. No, it couldn’t take all of the light that you shut out or all of the bruises that you caused of all of the sparks that you stomped out. No, it couldn’t take all of the damage that you’d done or all of the pain that you created or all of the scars that you painted. No, it couldn’t take the years of turmoil that you caused her or the angry bitterness that you bred between everyone in times of doubt. No, it couldn’t take you. No, the universe had to take her...

Because that’s how the terrible fucking things work.

It’s not like you want to die-- not entirely at least-- and that’s saying something because last time you found yourself in this place, a month after burying you own blood, you wanted nothing more than to flee the clutches of this world.... but not now, not entirely... but you still couldn’t help but beg the sky as it faded into a pink afterglow why.

Why her?

Why now?

Why this?

Why us?

Why after all this time?

Why after everything?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Sliding your thumb across the back, you rip the glue up, opening the envelope at last as your knees roll to the side, your body staying fixed against the side of your jeep with its door wide open to the world. The letter inside was meticulously folded-- right up Tris’ alley. Each corner was turned in at the exact same angle, her trademark for notes passed between you during the church services that Toni drug you to twice a year or notes slipped in the hallway at school when you would come bring her “forgotten” lunch-- but let’s be honest-- she never forgot it... she just wanted an excuse for her cool, older sister to come visit her in school.

She always did stupid shit like that.

Like forgetting her backpack or her soccer gear or somehow locking her keys in her car. Shit, she got suspended once specifically so you would have to spend time with her. I mean, yes, you were distancing yourself. Yes, you were withdrawing. Yes, you weren’t supposed to be home alone by yourself under orders of pretty much every psychiatrist in the area, and yes, Lincoln had to return to work, but when you received that phone call from the principal explaining that your sister had been caught vandalizing the side of school property, it became apparent what her game was. She just wanted to be with you.

That’s all she ever wanted.

She wanted to be with you.

Sucking the air in deeply, you swallow it down, feeling the lump as it travels through your chest, stopping your throat up and making it impossible to breathe. Fuck, who are you kidding, you haven’t known how to breathe for a month now.

Just another thing you’d have to learn to do again.

Unfolding the paper gently, your fingers took heed of the corners, protecting every fragment of what little remained of your sister’s last letter to you. Sure, it would just be another note in the box in your closet, and sure it probably said something dumb and cheesy, and sure, it would probably be irrelevant in a few years, but right now, in this moment, as the paper slid cautiously through your first two fingers and your thumb gripped loosely to the corner of the flattened notebook paper, it meant everything.

It meant the world.

\---

**BELLAMY**

There’s a part of you that wonders if you should even go in or not. Turning onto your street, you anticipated the normal routine... I mean, it wasn’t terrible. You get home, make something light to eat, continue to pack while something from Netflix plays in the background until you fall asleep, and wake up on the floor or sprawled across the couch and repeat the process. It had become quite bearable over the last couple of days, but that little Kia in your driveway fucked that all up for you. So yeah, there’s a part of you that wonders whether or not you should go in.

But there’s also a part of you that is begging the other part to shut the fuck up. There’s a part of you that wants to run through the doors and take Harper in your arms. There’s that part of you that wants more than anything to beg her to stay. There’s that part of you that doesn’t want to admit what the other part of you already knows. There’s a part of you...

So walking in was awkward to say the least. She was sitting on the couch, her legs folded up underneath her body, a book in her hand. Her now blonder hair was pulled back into that pony tail that you always loved. It reminded you of when things were easier for you two. It reminded you of work and how you could sit and talk for hours about nothing, just shooting the bull and getting to know each other, but the color change made you wonder if she was trying to remove you. Just like how every picture was missing from the frames in your living room or how you had to buy new bed sheets or how you packed away all of the wine glasses-- was she struggling to erase the memory of you from her body as much as you were? She obviously didn’t hear you come in because she stayed enthralled in her book, her eyes shifting slightly across the page, dancing through the words of _The Haunting of Hill House_ by Shirley Jackson, and this was completely okay by you. For the minute that you had with her, you were willing to just watch because that part of you that you hated, that part of you that you knew was right, told you that the minute she knew you were here, you would talk. And the minute that you two talked, the conversation would have to end. And when the conversation had to end, then she would leave. And when she left, you would be alone again...

Without her...

So you watched. Standing in the doorway with your shoulder pressed against the wood, your eyes stayed focused in on her, the rise and fall of her delicate chest, her small fingers turning a page before she caught you. Jumping slightly in her chair, she gasped, pulling her arms into her chest. “Holy fuck Bellamy,” she laughs through her panic, the chuckle in her voice bringing a smile to your lips. Honestly, you forgot what her voice even sounded like.

You forgot about the small rasp that catches in her throat with each word. You forgot about the slow drawl in specific words as they leave her lips. You forgot about the way that her eyes follow yours, watching every shift and every thought as it crosses your brain.

And you thought for a moment about how you may have been wrong. Maybe things could work out...

But you forgot about how she could see straight through you.

“Look,” she says, laying the book down on the sofa and uncrossing her feet from under her, rising from her seat and walking over to you. “I’m only here for closure.” Without another word, she walked straight past you and into the hallway, her scent lingering in your nostrils as she passed. Black chamomile and cinnamon-- a mixture that you never thought should work, but strangely enough, it does.

Or maybe it’s just her.

Following her loosely, you allow her shadow to lead you into the kitchen, the soft patter of her feet echoing behind to draw you forward when you close your eyes. There’s a small sound change as her feet hit the kitchen tile for the first time causing a slight shudder in your steps.

“Sit with me,” she begs you, pulling out a chair at the table and taking a seat across from you. Still standing, you lean into the doorway again, your shoulder finding its rest on the wooden frame for a second time.

Exhaling slowly, you simply shake your head before closing your eyes and pursing your lips, trying to control the thoughts in your head.

There are too many words.

Too many words to be said.

Too many words that you know you’ll never be able to say.

Too many words...

But what it comes down to is this...

There are too many words that you don’t want to hear.

“I don’t think that I can,” you manage to cough out, your mouth drying up more with each word. Opening your eyes at last, you’re greeted not with the face of someone who WANTS to leave you but with the eyes of someone that HAS to leave...

And at last you get it.

You get why Lexa left Clarke on the steps of your apartment in the middle of the day.

You get why Clarke left you on the side of the highway in the rain.

You get why Harper left you on the 4th of July.

In her eyes you can finally understand why she couldn’t continue to try again.

In her eyes you see the reflection of a broken man who has struggled too much to make something broken whole again.

In her eyes you see the truth.

“Please sit down,” she asks again, her eyes shifting from yours for the first time to look at the empty seat across from her.

And you can’t say no.

\---

_LEXA!_

_It’s your birthday! How cool is that? I mean, did you think that you’d actually make it to 30? If I can be honest, there was a time that I wasn’t sure. I’m glad that I was wrong though. I honestly don’t know what I would do without you. When you left for college, I cried for three days straight. It was the weirdest thing for me to not wake up to you running a shower after your morning run or for me to get out of soccer practice and you not be there to hassle me about homework and shit. I mean, Mom and Dad were still here then and Lincoln wasn’t quite as much of a dick as he had been, but it wasn’t you. And that’s the important thing. It was always you. You were always there for me-- even when I pushed you away. You were always there. Every phone call. Every text message. Every snail mail letter mailed off two days too late. You were always there. You have always been there. From quotes I’ve never heard to books I didn’t want to read. From impromptu soccer practices in the yard to spur-of-the-moment dance parties in the living room. From cruzing the streets in your car to walking the mall just to get out of the house. From football games on the couch (or standing next to it because to be honest you never sit down during Sooners games) to late nights at the dinner just watching you do your job. You were always there for me, no matter what. So there was this one song that I listened to on repeat for literally weeks. MICHIGAN by the Milk Carton Kids. I hope one day you’ll listen to this and know how much I’ve always cared for you. It’s a break up song, but the words “What am I supposed to do now without you,” made me think of you and I couldn’t handle it. I’ve loved you from the moment I knew how to feel. I’ve always been yours, but just as much, you’ve always been mine. I’ve been your little. I’ve been your second. But I spent so much time and energy on making you feel like I hated you when you struggled because I needed you to leave. I couldn’t stand the idea of losing you so if you left on your own then I couldn’t blame myself for not trying hard enough to save you. It’s backwards, I know, but I need you to know how hard it was for me. It was impossible watching you try to give up day after day. It hurt like hell to hear you scream and cry from another room. I wanted to die every time that you begged Lincoln to let you end it all. I don’t think I ever really talked with you about those days. I mean, we talk about them now and I’m thankful for that, but I’ve never told you what I saw in you. I mean, it happened overnight for me. One day you were loading me onto a bus for soccer can and the next as I was holding you hand as you had wires running from your arms attaching you to a bag full of someone else’s blood. And then the real hell started. I watched you go from the strongest person I knew to the weakest in the blink of an eye-- and the worst part was that I couldn’t even blame you. I mean, I wanted to crumble. I wanted to fall apart. I wanted to wish myself away, so I understood-- but I never felt like I wanted to die... Not entirely. Not until I watched you try. Because I’ve always loved you. I’ve always been yours. And when you started getting better, my heart started healing. When we were able to place the guns back in the house and you were able to handle kitchen ware without Lincoln or I panicking about you, things finally started getting back on track. And that was because of you. You brought us from those pits. You were always the strongest of us which is why I’ve always wanted to be like you. Well, shit... this is all weird... it totally sounds like a break up or like I’m dying or something... haha, anyway, I love you. I always have. And I promise, I’m not leaving you. I’ve never wanted to leave you and I’ve never wanted you to leave me. Looks like you’re stuck with me punk. Oh, and stop worrying about my damn headaches. I told you that they were nothing and you’re driving yourself into an early grave by worrying about me. I may be your little sister, but I’m not a child anymore. I have health insurance and I’ve already gotten the scans done. Everything’s fine. Nothing showed up, so stop sending me texts about them! I love you. And in case you didn’t get it the first 200 times I said it in this letter, I love you._

_Tris_

_P.s. Happy Birthday Asshole_

_You’re Old._

\---

**LEXA**

Withdrawing your phone from your pocket, you lean your head back against the side of your car, typing the name of the song into the search bar and tossing the phone a little too hard onto the concrete below as the guitar picks up, a lump already building in your throat. Your left hand still clings tightly to the paper, taking heed not to crinkle even the corner of the coffee stained letter as your right hand trails up your opposing bicep, each centimeter leading a little deeper into your skin until you can’t feel it anymore. Your jaw clenches as the rhythm guitar cries out gently into the silence, your ankles uncrossing as your knees retreat into your chest. Honestly, you don’t even feel it when your body begins to curl up. You’re not in control of this situation.

You’re not in control of anything.

_The clouds move over Pontiac skies. Their silent thunder matches mine. I know this feeling from long ago. I wondered was it gone, but now I know._

With your fingernails digging deeper, you finally feel something-- the small trickle of blood down your arm from the burning just under the sleeve of your shirt. It’s faint and almost unnoticeable, shadowed by the overwhelming darkness that has moved over your own Pontiac skies. There’s not a single cloud in the blue sky above, the pink and orange glow of a closely approaching setting sun tempting into the clear horizon, warning you of the impending darkness that will fall over Macomb soon. But none of this measures up to the darkness that is flooding over every cell of your body.

_So when she calls, don't send her my way. When it hurts, you'll know it's the right thing._

Opening your mouth to breathe, you hear the shudder in your own mouth, the catch in your throat stopping the air from entering your system and that’s when you feel it-- This is where you die. Just like a thousand times before... just like every panic attach... just like every darkened night... just like every moment of feeling alone... this is where you die.

_Michigan's in the rear-view now. Keep your hands where I could see 'em. You took the words right out my mouth. When you knew that I would need 'em. What am I supposed to do now.  Without you. Without you._

Standing, you try to breathe. You try to stretch. You try to move, but with each atom in you moving, you’re reminded of the pain in side of you. You’re reminded of the words that were taken right of your mouth. You’re reminded of every moment that you wanted to tell her that you loved her and didn’t. you’re reminded of every moment that you wanted to tell her that you were proud of her and didn’t. You’re reminded of every argument and every fight and every “I hate you” followed quickly by an “I’m sorry.” But it was never enough. It’ll never be enough. And now it’s too late.

_It’s unannounced like you’d expect it. I’m on broke down brake lines and mo-town records. And all that’s left is a blind reflection. But you know what’s coming and you regret it._

And you do regret it. You will always regret it. Turning towards your car, you catch your reflection in the glow of the window, the tear streaked lines racing down your cheeks... your eyes sunken in like raccoon rings or war paint. This is where you were left. This was what you’ve always been. Broken.

 _So when she calls, don't send her my way. When it hurts most it's the right thing_.

Balling up your fist, it happens almost instantly and without warning. Your arm extends against your will, the entire weight of your mass thrusting it into the brick mailbox beside you. There’s a small crunch in your hand, the feeling of each of your fingers sliding against each other, but you’re not greeted with pain. You’re not greeted with hurt. In fact, you’re greeted with nothing. And unlike the song, it’s not the right thing. When it hurts most it’s not the right thing. Because if that was the case then this would be the right thing... the worst hurt you’ve ever felt. Even worse than...

_Michigan’s in the rear-view now. Keep your hands where I could see ‘em. You took the words right out my mouth. When you knew that I would need ‘em. What am I supposed to do now.  Without you. Without you_

The blood drips from your fingertips, leaving a small trail across the fresh paved cement beside you-- proof of your existence if nothing else. “What am I supposed to do now with you?” escapes your lungs before you know any better, the last words of the chorus echoing into the air around you. And again, “what am I supposed to do without you?” and again “what am I supposed to do now without you?”  and before you can even take another breath you are screaming the words into the sky above, watching as the red and orange spreads around you. Allowing your eyes to fall to the paper below, you notice a small red dot in the middle of the page, remnants of your insides poured to the outside. And that’s when the true panic begins.

_Michigan's in the rear-view now. Keep your hands where I could see 'em. You took the words right out my mouth. When you knew that I would need 'em. What am I supposed to do now.  Without you. Without you._

“No, No, No,” you continually shout, dropping to your knees and rubbing the paper with the corner of your shirt attempting to erase the blood. Ironic how you crave nothing more than to erase all signs of your life from this world sometimes. But it’s not working. In fact, it’s just smearing into the page as is your fingertip until it rips, your finger thrusting straight through the page, tearing it entirely in half. “Fuck!” you voice screams loud enough for you to hear the echo reminding you of how badly you’ve fucked up. You’ve fucked up, and not just with this paper-- with everything. Throwing the paper out in front of you, you throw your body down onto the ground, tossing your head back onto the side of your jeep yet again. And just as you’re closing your eyes, you’re met with the soft tickle of the page pieces against your skin, the small breeze pushing your sister’s words against your arms. “What am I supposed to do now without you?” You beg into the sky, grabbing the pieces in your fists as your hands meet with the sides of your head. “What am I supposed to do without you now?”

_What am I supposed to do now without you?_

_Without you?_

\---

**CLARKE**

As you watch the sun set from inside of the bar, you wonder what Lexa’s up to. She hasn’t texted you back in a couple of hours… but then again, she’s with Bellamy. Everything’s fine.

But it’s not really, is it?

Inhaling deeply, you push back the negativity, refusing to allow it to ruin this moment with your mother. You don’t get these nearly enough, and she’s actually asking to hang out with you.

Maybe you could make this work.

At least you can make something work.

It’s not like you didn’t have any say in any of the other situations that are happening.

It’s not like you could have told someone about Lincoln and that day outside of the hospital. I mean, who would have actually told someone that their brother-in-law was a struggling drug user?

It’s not like you could have suggested that Tris visit your mother for her headaches. I mean, what could the number one neurosurgeon have done for her?

Who would have actually helped?

Except everyone…

Everyone would have done something…

Except for you apparently…

 Because you did nothing.

You sat by and watch it all unfold, and now you’re useless.

Just like you’ve always been…

Useless.

“What did I miss?” You mother asks, returning to her seat next to you at the window, looking out in the direction of the outside world. She turns her head back to you and even from the corner of your eye, you can see her smile drop. “Clarke, what’s wrong?”

And you can’t stop it. After years of hiding it, you keep it in anymore.

“I’m useless, aren’t I?”

Turning your head to see her at last, you instantly regret it. The sadness and the disappointment written between her eyes causes you to inhale sharply, swallowing down the air into your lungs with a loud shudder. “No, baby,” she replies, sighting as she reaches a hand over your shoulder, pulling you into her grasp. Leaning your head on her shoulder, you inhale deeply, trembling against her as the air flows from your nose. “You’re not useless. You’re just strained. We all are.”

We all are.

\---

**LINCOLN**

Taking the letter in your fingertips, you tremble as you slide your index finger under the seal of the envelope. This is your one allowed communication with the outside world. This one letter, and even though your body has never felt more free and your mind more clear, you shake and shiver at the words within. You haven’t heard from your sisters since you entered rehab—it was the rules—and honestly, you were surprised to be getting this letter. Lexa wasn’t much for the communication, you two were the same like that. And Tris, Tris was busy. She had soccer and her wife and probably didn’t have time to worry about her brother locked away from his sins.

I mean, why would she have time for you? She was living her life. It was you who fucked up yours.

But when your eyes scanned that first sentence, you knew something wasn’t right. You knew everything was about to fall apart.

_Lincoln,_

_I need you. God, little brother, I need you. I don’t know how to even write this to you now. This is my 14 th attempt at putting this into words and it’s still not right, so I’m just going to say it. We lost her. After everything… after all of the struggle and all of the hope and all of everything, we’ve lost her. And now I’m alone. Mom and Dad are gone. You’re locked away. Tris is gone. And I’ve never felt more alone in my life. Surrounded by a hundred and one people who love me, I’ve never felt more alone. I need you little brother. Please. I need you. Don’t make me say it. Don’t make me write the truth. Just let me tell you how it happened. It was normal. God, it was supposed to be normal. She was playing soccer, and then she wasn’t. She was smiling, and then she wasn’t. She was alive and happy and breathing, and then… Fuck. God, please come home. Please get better and come home. Please. Please._

There are more words written below in your sister’s broken and tattered script, but the tears filling your eyes are making it impossible to read. Dropping the paper on the floor below you, your hands reach up to your face, rubbing deeply up the sides of your jaw and onto your head. With your nails scratching back down your head, you exhale deeply, shuddering with each particle of air that escapes your lungs.

This is what you’ve done. This is what you’ve missed.

And you can never get it back.

You can never get her back.

\---

**BELLAMY**

Laughing deeply, you smile at the blonde across from you. Without even thinking, you reach your hand out, holding hers from across the table before she pulls back, leaning back in her chair as her eyes fall to the table below.

“Bellamy,” she begins, her hand withdrawing to her chest.

“I know,” is your only reply as you lean back in your own chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m sorry.”

And you were. You were sorry for everything. You two could sit here and laugh and talk like nothing was wrong, but when it came down to it, something was wrong and it was all because of you. Sitting in silence for a moment allows your thoughts to catch up with you and suddenly your brain is flooded with song lyrics and poetry that your insides have begged for her to hear since she left.

But no words come.

Instead, you continue to sit in silence, listening to only the pounding of your heart and the static in your head before she speaks again.

“Are you still going to therapy?” she asks to which you only nod. I mean, how can you even open your mouth to say real words when real words aren’t forming inside of you. “That’s good,” she nods with a small smile, her brown eyes looking up and making contact with yours before she looks away again.

 It’s a dance honestly. That’s all this is. And it’s not just between your eyes. It’s a dance with your voices, battling each other slowly and quietly-- who can say the most by saying the least. It’s a dance with your bodies-- who can get the closest and still stay the furthest away. It’s a dance with your minds-- who can fool the other into thinking that you’re handling this well. This is a dance and it’s getting old.

“You know,” she begins again, her fingers tracing lines across the table while her eyes follow. “We could have been great .”

And that’s the phrase that did it. With her pause and sigh afterward, her shoulders dropping with her last syllable, it becomes apparent to you, to all of you, that you know the truth. The part of you that wants to run. The part of you that wants to stay. The part of you that wishes this all would end. All of you knows that you’re just not working anymore.

“Yeah,” you snort at your realization, your eyes dropping to your lap just like hers. Again with dance. Again with the back and forth. “We were just meant for a different time.”

A small half smile cracks across her lips to battle the sadness that her eyes are projecting across the table in front of her and when you lift your head once more to face her, it’s as if you’re blinded entirely by the emotion. You squint and cringe, trying not to look at it head on, but you can’t. You can’t turn away from her. “Maybe in a different time or a different place,” she begins, reaching down into the bag at her feet and withdrawing a folded piece of paper. She places it on the table, her fingertips covering the small page and hiding it from your view-- not that it would matter since your eyes are still fixated on her. She maintains her stare on the paper under her hand as she slides it slowly across to you, releasing it and withdrawing her hand just before your fingers meet. Clearly she’s avoiding contact. Neither of you can go through that again. “I owe you my life, Bellamy,” she begins as you lift the check the bottom line written for ‘half of everything’. It’s almost completely blank, just her signature and date to accompany the reason and you can’t help but snort at the situation.

Was she really going to try to pay you for dating her?

“And I don’t want you to feel like you’ve wasted these last two years,” she continues as her hands fall into her lap, her fingers twisting circles against each other-- yet another dance. “I just want you to know that I love you.” Your elbow rests on the table, the check still extended out in front of your face. “I always have.” _Then why are you leaving?_ “I always will.” _Then stay with me._

And then you laugh at yourself. You’re actually begging this woman in your head to stay with you while you’re surrounded by boxes of your belongings, ready to flee as soon as the packing is finished.

What a fucked up story.

With a small smirk across your lips, the realization becomes clear as both hands find the check. Your fingers act without thought and you wonder what exactly this says about you and your desire to leave-- if you can even call it that anymore. Tearing the check down the middle, you place the two separate pieces on the table in front of you, a display devoted specifically to her.

Art that even Clarke couldn’t put to shame.

“You don’t owe me anything, Harper,” you say, the tiny smile still splitting your lips as you bite down on your lower lip, your right hand reaching out cautiously for her. She doesn’t owe you this either, so you shouldn’t be upset when she hesitates. But you are. “You never have.” Her hand finds your slowly, her fingers sliding into your cupped hand before you tighten gently around them.

“Maybe,” she begins, her eyes falling back into her lap as if she’s searching for the words below. “Maybe one day we’ll be in a different time?”

She glances up over her hair, the thin lock falling from behind her ear to cover her left eye, the blonde masking the amber below.  Your smile widens momentarily as your thumb strokes across her fingers while the words “Maybe one day,” escort the movement-- the sonnet singing out to accompany your waltz through the conversation with Harper.

“Maybe one day,” she repeats with a small exhale, withdrawing her hand and looking you in the eyes. “Maybe one day.”

\---

**CLARKE**

Family game night just wasn’t the same. I mean, it was weird enough that your mother was here, attached to the arm of your boss and even though you were trying (god, were you ever trying), it was still odd seeing them together. But then you add in Lexa’s sadness that seems to trump any emotion that she’s ever had-- you can understand why... you lost a sister too, Bellamy’s awkward dance around everything like he has no clue how to interact with anyone, Octavia’s silence from the seat next to her brother while she breathes in slower and slower with each breath and the overall angst and awkwardness that is in the room, you wonder how you all haven’t drown in the tension yet.

It blows your mind that everyone can fall apart so easily. You tight knit group of misfits is now tattering away at the seams...

Is this what it was like when you left?

Instead of a round of shots and the loud commotion of music and laughter, the room is filled with melancholy ambiance and small conversation dancing around the points that everyone really wants to discuss.

You’re all broken.

Why can’t you all just talk about it?

When your eyes meet Octavia’s you feel the overwhelming weight of the words on the tip of her tongue, every question that she wants to ask and hasn’t, every phrase that has crossed her brain, every word that she’s left unspoken. “So, is this what we’ve become?” she asks at last, breaking the line of sight between you as she glances around.

Lifting your glass to your lips, you place your other hand on Lexa’s leg, watching as nothing in her changes. She’s stone, sitting emotionless as her eyes stay focused on the table. She’s broken, her shoulders hanging low under her neck. She’s losing, the war inside of her raging on without her control.

And there’s nothing that you can do...

Because you feel the exact same.

Finally a voice breaks the silence of thought around you as Monty reaches across the table, placing a hand on Octavia’s, wrapping his thin fingers around hers tightly and pulling them to his lips. He smiles to her awkwardly, forcing the expression across his face as if he’s painting outside of the lines. “You know,” he begins just as her eyes reach his. “Things may change, but we’re still here.” You nod, the truth of these words beating into your chest. “And that should count for something.”

Lexa’s hand finds yours her eyes glancing over the glass of water in her bandaged hand-- a story she still refuses to tell even though you already know.

She hasn’t drunk liquor since Lincoln was admitted into treatment.

She stopped drinking beer when Tris...

You shudder at her name crossing your brain. Honestly, you can’t finish the phase. It’s not like you don’t know what happened. You’re well aware of what went on during that soccer match. You’re well aware of what happened in that hospital. You know exactly what became of your sister-in-law. But your brain won’t allow you to say it.

You can’t say the words that she...

She...

Tris....

Swallowing deeply, your eyes meet with Lexa’s, eclipsed only by the hair that she has been using to cover the tears that have made their way out of her eyes and down her cheeks.

She’s trying-- you can see this in her eyes.

You all are.

“Can we play a game?” Octavia asks, drawing your attention back to the brunette at the other end of the table. She’s glancing around the room, eyes begging every single one of you for some sense of normal. “Please?”

Monty smiles, lifting his shoulders from over the table, opening the conversation to the rest of you. “How bout it guys?” There’s a small chuckle from the group. Bellamy straightens his posture, shaking off the depression that has lingered. Jasper smiles up, looking up at Maya who raises a finger into the air.

“You know, If I remember right, It’s my pick!” the dark haired nurse laughs into the room, an instant groan filling the air around you.

“Kings,” everyone says almost in unison, prompting a laugh from Lexa.

Honestly, it’s the first time that you’ve heard her laugh in almost a month. It was small and stifled, but it was there, and that was something. The warmth that begins filling your chest starts to battle off the cold that had taken a semi-permanent residences, spreading from your core into every inch of you.

Maybe there was hope yet for being normal again...

But every time you think that, something else happens.

Every. Damn. Time.

\---

**OCTAVIA**

From inside your kitchen you could hear everyone laughing. It was strained and uncomfortable still-- like you were all learning to laugh together, but it was progress. Reaching into the fridge, you grab a bottle of water before your brother reaches his long arms over yours, grabbing a beer as you close the door.

“Thanks,” he flashes you a quick smile, trying to cover his steps, but it’s obvious...

It has been all night...

There’s something on his mind.

Inhaling deeply, you exhale slowly, twisting the lid off of your bottle as your eyes focus in on your brother’s shifting pupils. He was doing all he could to avoid eye contact with you. It was what he did.

Bellamy Blake could fight in wars and take on anyone on the planet-- but when it came to his little sister, your brother was incapable of holding his own ground.

When it came to you, he was helpless.

“Spit it out,” you reply, taking a swig of the bottle that has been lifted just shy of your lips for a long enough time period for Bellamy to down half of the beer bottle in his hand. “I know there’s something.” You recap the bottle, turning quickly to place it on the countertop beside you before hopping up on to the counter, your feet dangling below. “What’s on your mind?”

Honestly, had this been another time, you would have allowed him to stumble awkwardly though his phrases and lead you on a wild goose chase down the rabbit hole of book quotes and famous last words, but your tolerance for bullshit was really low these days and you were too exhausted to decipher his words.

“Everybody has to leave, everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons,” he begins before adding “Donald Miller said that in a book about religion.” You sigh dramatically, rolling your head back while reaching for the bottle, begging him to get to the point.

Again, that tolerance level was extremely low...

“I’m leaving,” he finally spits out after a couple of deep breaths. The words leave his mouth like a freight train, passing right by his closed eyes and slamming through your chest like an explosion, each train car wreaking havoc on your heart as it goes up in flames on impact. It’s almost enough to knock you to your knees, but your firm grasp on the corner of the counter top holds you in place, your knuckles whitening at your grip.

“What?” you ask, unable to produce words. Your brother just sits there, his body leaned against the edge of the fridge as he finishes his beer, apparently gathering the liquid courage to continue this conversation.

“I fucked up, O,” is how he begins this phrase.

He fucked up.

That’s all that your older brother has to offer you when you ask why he’s completely uprooting his life and leaving you and your eight month old son while your husband is in rehab.

He fucked up.

It takes everything in you to bite back the words that are already forming phrases in your mouth, bouncing against your tongue, gagging you with their aggression. As he continues to speak, all you hear are those first words of explanation.

He fucked up.

“After everything with Harper and just all of this... I’m heading out west. I have an old army buddy out there who will... It’ll be good for us... You’ll be okay. I promise... I’ll come home for Christmas of course...”

You’re only hearing every other phrase that leaves his mouth, the rest being lost somewhere in the static between you two. The white noise is growing increasingly louder as he speaks, drowning out his reasoning until you can’t take it anymore.

“So you’re just going to run away?” you practically shout, slamming your water bottle down onto the marble countertop, the plastic giving way under your grip and collapsing between your fingers. His face drops as he continues to listen to your screams, each word causing his eyes to inch lower and lower. “Like a coward, you’re going to leave us all like this -- strung out and disassembled?”

Before you can even continue, however, he stands straight back up, sizing himself up against you as he straightens his back, pushing his jaw out further before he speaks. “Are you talking to me or saying the things that you want to say to your husband but can’t?”

Everyone in the room next to you has grown quiet as the words exchanged between you two grow in volume, the shouts becoming screams which just becomes noise as you throw yourself from on top of the counter, your bare feet slapping down onto the tile below. Standing next to your brother is like standing next to a mountain but you don’t care. You don’t feel intimidated and you’re not backing down. Without any words, you watch as he swallows down his words, taking a small breath at first and then another, filling his lungs slowly as tears start to swell up in his eyes.

“What? Is this what you wanted?” he asks, pointing over to the door where all of your friends were now standing, gathered closely around each other, each with eyes of concern and compassion. “Isn’t this what all of you have been waiting for? To watch me break down?”

This was never what you wanted. You never wanted your brother to break. That’s why you moved to Macomb. That’s why you completely uprooted your life to come to the middle of a corn field. That’s why you gave up everything-- to keep him from breaking.

And even that you failed at.

“Woah man, No one has ever said anything like that,” Jasper tries to reason, lifting a hand to your brother who is now slouching over against the stare of the others. It’s like he is single handedly shouldering the weight of their stares, shielding you from their eyes and their judgement. Your scruffy looking friend’s concern radiates from his fingertips as they reach out a little more with each step he takes towards Bellamy, finally reaching your brother’s shoulder.

Bellamy shrugs him of quickly, Jasper retreating just as fast as he jerks his hand back. “Fuck off. I’m not going to do anything stupid,” Bellamy glares over at the group. “I’m tired of all of you treating me like I’m some fucked up, delicate mental patient. Okay?” He sighs deeply, turning his brown eyes back to you, the amber glow peering straight through you as he says, “I’m not broken.”

Lexa’s voice is the first to break the silence again as she steps through the group, her soft words bringing a wave of comfort over you.

She was Bellamy’s best friend.

This was more up her alley than yours-- especially these days.

“Hey buddy, why don’t you come sit down?” she asks him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Where Jasper simply touched him, Lexa grabbed his shoulder, the affirmation of her presence causing him to turn quickly to her. Her expression wasn’t the relief that you expected however.

It was panic.

With open palms pushing against her, Bellamy shoved her back, Jasper reaching out and catching the brunette before she tripped and stumbled even more. “And you… you’re the worst of them,” he says to her, his eyes scanning the group and then you before turning back to your sister-in-law. “You said you’d always be there…. But you’re not… none of you are.”

Without any more words, your brother pushes his way through the group that parts willingly for him, Lexa being the only one who refuses to move.

Without any more words, your brother leaves the house, leaving everyone to stare at you in the middle of your kitchen.

Without any more words, your brother leaves.

And that’s all there is to that.

\---

**BELLAMY**

So you’re an ass. You totally get that. I mean, that’s nothing new to you though. You’ve been doing this for years now-- hurting those around you with little to no regard to their feelings and then suddenly wallowing in your self-loathing when the reality of your situation came crashing down on top of you.

And that’s why when you were driving away from Octavia’s house, every song on your playlist seemed to criticize you.

_Boathouse, coming down the river. Boathouse, carrying my son. Boathouse, carrying his mother. You know she’s the only one. Caroline, my heart is aching. But I can’t quit this town. Caroline, my heartless drinking. I can’t quit this town. So go on, wave goodbye._

“Nope,” you grumble, quickly clicking the next button on the dashboard, not even hesitating after the first chorus. Sure, this song wouldn’t necessarily speak to you and Octavia’s argument at the moment, but it absolutely called you out on your fuckery... probably more than you wanted.

The next song starts and you sigh in relief, your fingers loosening around the steering wheel slightly as you relax into the sound of the violin and guitar, allowing the music to take you while your truck merges lanes across the empty highway. Honestly, you’ve missed the exit for your house and that’s totally fine. I mean, you do need to finish packing...

But strangely enough...

Something inside of you says you don’t.

And then the chorus hits.

_I hear a voice calling. Calling out for me. These shackles I’ve made in an attempt to be free. Be it for reason, be it for love. I won’t take the easy road._

“Jesus Christ,” your protests are met with silence as you smash down on the next button again, the music coming to an abrupt end before the next song starts. Without making it past the first or second verse, you travel through the next 4 songs, your shaking hand maintaining its position on the next button without movement.

_Suddenly you’re shaken with pain shooting down inside you. And now you’re crumbling away but this isn’t like you. It doesn’t stop till it breaks down all you know. Your breathing locks and your balance goes._

_Oh my darling. This is getting harder. The world is growing smaller. Everyday. Oh my darling. Your memory slowly fading. I know I keep complaining. But I’m not as strong as I was._

_And we both go down together. We’d stay there forever. Just trying to get up. And I’m sorry. This wasn’t easy. When I asked you believe me. And never let go._

_Go ahead and burn it down. I’m drunk and so is everyone else. in this devil town. They won’t let me turn around. To get one last look at my baby. While she’s still around._

“Fucking hell!” You shout, smashing the power button on your radio, turning off the device and leaving you in silence. “I need a better taste in music.” Continuing to drive into the darkness, the silence begins to wrap around you, bringing the darkness with it.

You actually told your friends that they were the reason that you were leaving.

You completely left out the part where you said that you felt like you had no control over anything.

You actually told Lexa that she was the worst friend that you had.

You completely left out the part where you said that she has actually saved your life more than anyone on this planet.

You actually stormed out of your sister’s house, leaving her to pick herself up off of the floor.

You completely left out the part where you apologized for being an ass and begged her to forgive you...

But maybe it wasn’t too late.

Pulling your truck onto the shoulder, you take a deep breath as you shift the vehicle into park, rubbing your hands over your face and down your jaw line. “You have one last chance,” you say to the radio, pointing a shaking finger at the device. “I need you to tell me what to do.”

Pushing the power button gently, you click next again and listen to the soft guitar strum, knowing exactly what you have to do.

_A cold wind blows, I am shivering. My body aches as my heart is breaking. Why is life making me hollow? Why is happiness casting me in the shadows? In the shadows._

Taking another deep breath, you close your eyes, leaning your head back in your seat and listening as the drums pick up, adding the bass through your speakers into the air around you, drowning out the darkness and wrapsping you in a new warmth that radiates throughout all of you.

_Hold on, don’t turn and walk away. Save me. And I cried these words but nobody came._

What is your sister doing right now? Is she crying those same words that your brain has recited over and over again? Is she waiting for somebody to come and save her just like you have been?

_I’m all alone, running scared. Losing my way in the dark. I tried to get up, stand on a prayer. But I keep crashing down hard._

I mean, think about it... Sure, you’ve been sleeping alone. Sure, you’ve woken up to an empty house for months now. Sure, you’ve walked through the dark, lonely halls... But you did that to yourself. You drove Harper away. You can’t blame an addiction for the loss of your love. That’s all on you...

_This is my side of the story. Only my side of the story. Nobody cares, nobody’s there. No one will hear, my side of the story._

But that’s not true for Octavia. She didn’t force Lincoln’s addiction. She didn’t cause any of it... and yet, she’s still alone. She’s still facing it on her own... and she’s carrying her son through it too.

_Emptiness, it’s all around me. I tried to catch my breath. I’m barely surviving. And I can’t go on and I come undone. And there’s nothing left in me._

Taking another deep breath, you shudder the air from your lungs before you even realize that you’re crying, the tears streaking down your cheeks to paint your face with emotion.

_Hold on, don’t turn and walk away. Save me. And I cried these words but nobody came._

That couldn’t be the case for Octavia. You couldn’t allow her to sit there and say that nobody came for her.

_I’m all alone, running scared. Losing my way in the dark. I tried to get up, stand on a prayer. But I keep crashing down hard._

She’s your sister.

_This is my side of the story. Only my side of the story. Nobody cares, nobody’s there. No one will hear, my side of the story._

She’s your responsibility

_As I fall down. As I fall in. I cried these words but nobody came._

And you made a promise when she was born that nothing bad would ever happen to her. Sure, that was a dumb and naive promise to make, but now, you were the source of pain. You broke your own promise.

_I’m all alone, running scared. Losing my way in the dark. I tried to get up, stand on a prayer. But I keep crashing down hard._

Exhaling sharply, you shift the truck back into drive, whipping around quickly towards the direction of Octavia’s house, your foot unrelenting on the gas as you speed down the highway.

_This is my side of the story. Only my side of the story. Nobody cares, nobody’s there. No one will hear, my side of the story._

But that wasn’t going to be true for Octavia. You were going to hear her side of the story.

And you were going to stay to see it through to its conclusion.

She deserved at least that much.

They all deserved at least that much.

Withdrawing you phone, you swipe quickly across the keyboard before locking the screen and laying the device in your lap. The almost immediate response illuminates your dark car as you continue your path to Octavia’s. Smiling at the text, you reply once more before tossing the phone into the seat beside you, gripping the steering wheel with both hands tightly at first, then loosening again.

\---

**LEXA**

The car ride with Clarke is strained- as it has been for weeks now. You do this every time. No matter what is happening, you close up, making things unnecessarily awkward and impossibly stressed. Why are you so good at fucking things up? The silence that lingers between you two is choking you, drowning you as it fills every cavity in your body. You want to speak. You want to apologize for not being able to communicate. You want to apologize for Bellamy. You want to tell her that it’s not her fault-- none of it-- because you know that’s what’s going through her head. You want to speak, but you can’t. You’ve opened your mouth over and over again in a vain attempt to try, but nothing works. Instead, you’re sitting there, both hands gripping tightly to the steering wheel as if you’ll lose control at any moment with the building pressure inside of you, ready to blow.

Turning the when gently at first, then jerking when you lose patience, you pull the jeep to the side of the road, the sound of dirt and rocks bouncing up against the metal of your car causing Clarke to flinch. Honestly, you should have taken that into consideration. But you didn’t. Just like everything else, you think of yourself first.

But there’s no time for that. There’s no time to be concerned with her pseudo phobia of driving. You’re drowning and if you suffocate, she’ll die anyway when you crash this car. Screaming out into the almost silence, brightened only by the faint music echoing through the speakers, you begin pounding your balled fists against the steering wheel, the most natural feeling reaction that you could muster. Clarke is screaming back to you, but her words are blending into the background static that surrounds you, each syllable growing in volume until you hear nothing but the loud ringing in your ears.

Finally your hands stop, your head resting against them as they pulsate under the bandages and skin around them. “Do you fucking feel better?” your wife asks, throwing her hands over yours and bringing your unwrapped knuckle to her face. “You’re going to fucking hurt yourself if you don’t calm down.”

“Clarke,” you begin, instantly regretting the tone in your voice. And it only gets worse as the phrase “shut up,” leaves your mouth. She drops your hand and you don’t even have to lift your head to know how violently she is staring at you. You can feel the daggers on your shoulder without even looking up. “I have to deal with this on my own,” you attempt to save the conversation... or whatever the fuck was happening. “You can’t save me.”

The blonde takes a deep breath, exhaling slowing into the air in what you can only guess is an attempt to calm herself. An attempt that fails. The minute the last of the air has left you, the shouting begins, her body spinning on a point to face you. Lifting your hands over your head, you hold tightly to the sides of your head, listening to the words as they fill the void around you.

“Save you? I never wanted to fucking save you Lexa! That wasn’t my goal.” She’s pissed, and as you listen to her, you can’t really blame her. “That’s never been my goddamed goal. I just want to love you.” She’s hardly breathing between her phrases and this is obvious by the huffing sound that each word has... but honestly, who has time to breathe when she’s ripping you apart? “I just want to love you. For fuck’s sake, will you just let me love you? Will you just let us love you?”

And there’s the phrase. The phrase that brings you back down. The phrase that hits you in the stomach and steals the air from your lungs, causing you to gasp.

This isn’t about you.

This isn’t about her.

This is about all of you.

And if that realization wasn’t clear enough, Clarke’s next explosion brought it even more to light, bringing another sharp jab to the ribcage as you exhale again, losing fight with each word.

“Do you think that you’re the only one losing it here?” The crack in her voice forces your forehead deeper into the steering wheel as your shoulders drop. “Do you think that you’re the only one who has lost a brother to drugs? Or a sister to a brain aneurism? Or a best friend to this fucking drama in our lives?” She’s unrelenting and as much as you want to lift your head and wrap your arms around her, you’re frozen in place, each word forcing you deeper and deeper into the hole that you already dug. She might as well have been shoveling dirt on top of you...

And you deserved every grain of it.

“Do you think that you’re the only one who hurts Lexa? Because you’re not. I hurt. I hurt every moment of every day. I hurt when I’m reminded that I allowed it to continue with Lincoln.” The bitterness from her not telling you about that day at the hospital still bites in your chest. “I hurt when I think about how my mother is the best fucking neurosurgeon in the country and Tris died from a brain aneurism.” Honestly, the thought has crossed your mind on more than one occasion. “I hurt when I think about how Bellamy is leaving us because I couldn’t have survived without him. I hurt Lexa and you can’t discount that I hurt... you can’t discount that we hurt...”

Almost as if on cue, the music changes and you sigh deeply, knowing that there’s no way of escaping the shitshow that you’re about to become.

Every time.

Every... God... Damned... Time...

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me. 'Cause I'm a little unsteady. A little unsteady. Hold, hold on, hold onto me. 'Cause I'm a little unsteady. A little unsteady._

I mean, this mother fucking song doesn’t even apply to you... not really... but somehow, every time... it does.

_Mama, come here. Approach, appear. Daddy, I’m alone. ‘Cause this house don’t feel like home._

Just like last time you found yourself parked on the side of the road with this song screaming out to you, your hands are gripped tightly around the top of your head, pulling your t-shirt over your eyes in a vain attempt to sop up the tears that have now begun cascading down your cheeks. Exhaustion is overpowering you as the tension in your neck and shoulders is almost enough to cause you to snap.

_If you love me, don't let go. If you love me, don't let go._

But this time there’s no letting go. You can’t do that. You can’t do that to Clarke. You can’t do that to Lincoln. You can’t do that to...

Tris.

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me. ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady. A little unsteady. Hold, hold on, hold onto me. ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady. A little unsteady._

Clarke reaches a hand over to you, her soft fingers making their way under the sleeve of your shirt and holding tight to your clenched bicep.

_Mother, I know. That you're tired of being alone. Dad, I know you're trying. To fight when you feel like flying._

“I know you hurt. I know you hurt more than you should... and that hurts me even more,” you begin, your words sounding like a cop-out as you shudder through each letter, snorting back the tears and snot that have taken over your face. You lift your head at last, wiping the back of your hand across your nose and cringing slightly at the thought. Clarke chuckles from the corner of her mouth, reaching out and offering a napkin from your center console. Taking it, you follow a similar path across your face before taking another breath and trying to speak again.

_But if you love me, don't let go. If you love me, don't let go._

“Let me help,” Clarke cuts you off, both of her cold hands finding the sides of your face, her eyes looking straight into yours. The blue in her stare is as cold as the fingertips lining your face and you’re reminded of every stupid, fucking metaphor you’ve ever used-- the ocean, the sky, and everything in between-- Sufficient but not accurate to capture the reality of it all. She was burning.

She was burning for you.

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me. 'Cause I'm a little unsteady. A little unsteady. Hold, hold on, hold onto me. 'Cause I'm a little unsteady. A little unsteady._

“I don’t know how,” she says, stealing your own words before you can even speak them. “I don’t know how to help, but at least give me that option. Okay?”

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me. 'Cause I'm a little unsteady. A little unsteady_

You nod, your phone vibrating from its home in your center console and you sigh as Clarke’s hand leaves your face. For as cold as her fingers were, you never felt more frozen and more raw than when she removed her hand. It was like removing gloves in the winter-- the cold wind biting at your cheek from even inside the car.

She was warmth.

She always has been.

“You’re going to want to answer this,” she says with a smile, holding the phone out to you. You take it, a smile cutting its way across your face to match hers.

Blake (2:45am): I’ve fucked up. Coffee tomorrow?

With a slight chuckle, you reply, receiving your response almost instantly.

Lexa (2:48am): Only if you buy me donuts.

Blake (2:48am): Only for you commander

Turning your attention back to your wife, you smile awkwardly at her, shifting your weight as you gather your apology. Her cold hand meets your skin again, this time on the side of your neck as she holds you, pulling your forehead to hers. “Please don’t,” she says, the softness in her tone frightening you slightly when her voice cracks.

She’s trying too.

“Don’t apologize.”

\---                                                

**OCTAVIA**

You weren’t expecting him to return. In fact, you weren’t expecting anything. After pushing all of your protesting friend from your house, you chose to not expect anything from anyone-- this way you couldn’t be disappointed.

I mean, what did they owe you after all?

Nothing. They owed you nothing and that’s exactly  what you should expect. So it came as a shock when your bathroom door opened to Bellamy finding you curled up inside of the bathtub, the shower head blasting over your fully clothed body.

I mean, you felt like you were in a movie scene. It started off with the plan to take a shower. Honestly, you felt the need to wash the day off of you-- to scrub until you couldn’t feel this Saturday anymore... but something in your brain changed once you started watching the steam rise up and dance around your ceiling before escaping into the vent. With one foot at a time, you slowly walked yourself into the bathtub, ignoring the weight of your jeans as they absorbed the water berating you from above. Taking a seat, you curled your legs into your chest, holding tightly to your knees as if they would keep you grounded. You felt like you were floating. You felt like you were drowning. The water began as scorching hot, burning through your layers, piercing through your shirt and onto your skin-- but this didn’t matter. The red marks forming under your rolled up sleeves indicated nothing to you, and you felt nothing. But the hot water quickly ran out, leaving you in a pool of frigid cold water and the steam disappearing just as quickly... but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

And that’s how he found you, knees pulled tight to your chest, the ice cold shower blasting on high over your head as your clothes anchored you to the porcelain tub.

“Octavia,” Bellamy mumbles, his left foot stepping over the side of the bath as he enters to sit with you. Without any other words, your brother sits in the shower, his shirt plastering itself to his chest as his hair drowns out his eyes, the water flooding over his face. He wraps his arms around you, his shoulder blocking the majority of the flow from your face now as he tugs you into his grasp. “I’m sorry,” he whispers gently, your forehead somehow finding his shoulder through his words.

“Please don’t leave,” the whimper escapes your lips the moment your head touches his shoulder. Thank god for the fucking shower right now because the water down your face masks the tears that tremble from your eye, even if the catch in your voice and the shake in your body gives it away.

The lingering silence is welcoming as you listen to the only sound available, the shower against your brother’s shoulder and his breathing on the top of your head. For a brief moment, you think you can hear a shudder in his breaths, but the moment you think it’s there, suddenly it’s not.

“I don’t want Myles anymore,” you admit your darkest secret, the words tasting bitter against your tongue.

You are his mother. You’re supposed to love him. You’re supposed to protect him. But more times than not these days, when you hear his voice, you’re reminded of how you can’t do this. Rather than feel an instinct anymore, you feel nothing. Well, that’s not completely accurate. You feel tons of things, but nothing like what you did. Instead of love, you feel guilt. Instead of joy, you feel anger. Instead of happiness, you feel fear... and that’s on the good days. On the bad days, when your son cries, you feel nothing.

Until recently, you never understood when Bellamy explained the darkness in multiple tones. You never understood how something could feel heavy and empty at the same time. You never understood what he meant when he said that he felt like he was drowning in nothingness. You never understood the darkness...

And then Lincoln left.

And you were left alone to raise your child.

And then your life crumbled.

“That’s not true,” Bellamy interrupts your thoughts, pushing your head from his shoulders. He shifts his weight to the right, intercepting the shower so it won’t hit your face as he turns his eyes to you, his mirrored image of a face staring yours down. “That child in there is the best thing that has ever happened to all of us.”

“But all I see is Lincoln. All I see is his struggle.”

“And we’ll take that as it comes,” your brother replies gently, cupping the sides of your face in his hands, lifting your fallen chin to face him again. “Listen to me.” Your eyes shift to his again, but you can’t take it. You can’t look at the emotion in him when you feel nothing. “No, Octavia, look at me.” Lifting your eyes again, you try, shifting your focus between each of his pupils. “Do you remember when we were younger and I got mad and told you that my life ended the day that you were born?”

You snort a small laugh before saying “yeah, I was mad at you for weeks.” A small smile writes itself across Bellamy’s lips as he drops his hands to your shoulders, allowing you to hold your head on your own.

“Yes, well, I lied then. I lied then and every time that I told you that I was better off without you.” He pursed his lips, inhaling deeply before exhaling slowly, his eyes dropping as the next words flowed from his lips. “The truth is, It didn’t start until then... and watching that little boy in there.... It’s like beginning again.”

Your eyes fall yet again, the words that he just spoke dancing circles in your brain. “Then stay with us,” your whisper trembles, a quiet plea against the sound of the shower. The small exhale and smile from your brother’s mouth is enough to assure you of his response.

“I’m going to try,” he says, pulling you in once more to his cold, drenched shirt. Wrapping your arms around his torso and laying your head on his chest, you hear the words bounce around in his rib cage as he repeats, “I’m going to try.”

\---

**CLARKE**

The Sunday morning brunches with Roma had become regular-- at least declared so as of ten minutes ago. It didn’t matter that she lived hours away. It didn’t matter that you worked most Sundays. Nothing actually mattered while the two of you schemed and joked, knowing that you were probably full of shit while you talked.

No, all that mattered was that someone was there for you-- and more importantly, you were there for her.

The brunette laughed as she reached out a hand, holding it to your massive stomach and feeling for your baby’s movement. Honestly, your stomach and this child had basically become the extension of you that just months before you were terrified it never would. The sickness, the weird smells, the sudden bouts of emotion over ridiculous things like a picture of a kitten on a commercial or the water not boiling fast enough in a pot on the stove had all become extensions of yourself.

It’s like you were actually made for this.

And Lexa was made to be a mother.

The nursery had finally come together after two weeks of her and Bellamy’s attempts to make things normal between them. She gave in, as did you, deciding on brown and blue together, neither of you relenting on the colors of each other’s eyes.

God, your cuteness made even you sick sometimes.

But strangely enough, it worked-- as did Bellamy’s weird interior decorating with movie themes and small baby animals painted on the walls. You even helped-- which is probably the more miraculous part. After days upon days of Lexa begging you to paint something, you finally cracked open the acrylic, taking a thin brush to the wall and starting your small mural that ended up taking up the entire right wall. You had actually forgotten how much you loved painting. And you had forgotten how much Lexa loved you painting.

Sometimes you think that you guys forget how to love life.

But god it’s so easy...

Until moments like these.

“It’s like a little parasite,” Roma laughs, pulling back her hand which she quickly throws over her face with a smile. “Is that offensive?” she asks, laughing as you join in with her jokes.

The brunette looks exhausted. Surely the three and a half hour drive probably wore her down, but truth be told-- you know it’s more than that. How can it not be? She’s been fighting the same demons as the rest of you, except hers are worse. She didn’t just lose her sister. She didn’t just lose her friend. She lost her wife. She lost her other half, her purpose for being. She lost her everything and if you ever lost Lexa...

Taking a deep breath, you force the smile again, returning to the conversation at hand and attempting to bite back your own demons. This is not the time. This is not the place.

Shaking your head, you try to make a joke, but she beats you to the conversation, taking a turn that you didn’t expect.

“I’m surviving,” she begins, folding her hands into her lap. She adjusts in her seat, pulling her knees into the leather wrapped chair, her destroyed jeans folding up around her legs, the patches of skin breaking out in goosebumps as she picks at the frayed ends around her thighs. “It’s okay to talk about her. It’s okay to ask.” You smile awkwardly, knowing that she’s caught on to your concern. “I mean, I want to lie and say that I’m good, but you know better than that.”

The small chuckle and awkward smile that leaves her lips sends a shiver down your spine. It’s the laugh of someone who has given up. It’s the laugh of someone who knows things will never be the same. It’s the laugh of someone who understands that the demons we face no longer live specifically in the darkened corners of bedrooms, or the closet floor, or under the bed. It’s the laugh of someone who knows that the scariest and the strongest demons live inside of us.

“You know,” she begins, her eyes falling to the fraying of her jeans as she picks before tucking her finger tips under the denim, rubbing her leg as her eyes lift back up to you. “I always thought that life would end when I lost her. And for a moment it did, but then you have to get back up and continue going to work and paying bills and feeding the dog. Things are weird, but they’re not over, and I don’t necessarily know if that’s a good thing or not.” You simply nod, understanding, but not at the same time.

The only feeling that you remember from when Lexa left you was pain.

“But how are you?” Roma asks after a small pause, reaching over her legs and taking the steaming coffee mug in her hands. “Now that I’ve dominated conversation....”

“Shit,” the word leaves your mouth without any thought.

Well, that’s not true. You’ve thought constantly about how you are.

 Before every meal.

Each moment that a fork touched your lips.

At the cliff side of each recovery when you sat staring at the bathroom door knowing that you made a promised-- knowing that you had to get better.

And each time that you heard Lexa cry from behind locked doors.

Every morning when you rolled over in bed to find it empty and her running shoes gone.

Every day when you entered your bedroom and layed your keys on the dresser next to the jersey with her name and number on it.

Every second of every day had been littered with questions of how you were, so it’s not like you hadn’t thought about it. All you had done was think about it. “I’m shit,” you say again, licking your lips as your head shakes. Lifting your eyes from the swirls inside of your own mug, you meet Roma’s, the sympathy emanating from hers.

How can she do that?

How can she lose so much but still care so well?

“You care too much,” Roma laughs, lifting the glass to her lips as a snort exits your nostrils.

YOU care too much... so says the girl who can’t feel her own pain because everyone else is in pain...

“no, no,” she laughs again, this time more fully with her chest. Throwing her legs over the side of the couch, she lays her mug down, brushing her brown hair from her eyes before looking back at you. Leaning in, her elbows find her knees just in time for the words to leave her lips. “Even when you don’t feel like it, take care of yourself. I know you worry about Lexa, but I worry about you Clarke.”

Obviously she knows.

“It is okay to not feel recovered despite everyone around you assuming that you’re fine because of your body. You aren’t weak, you aren’t abnormal, and you aren’t alone.”

Obviously, she knows.

With another small laugh, you match her stance, leaning in towards the table as far as your belly will allow, feeling your baby shift inside of you. “She told you?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow. The question probably comes off as more standoffish than intended, but let’s be honest, when have you ever taken a neutral stance in this topic? Roma just nods, the sympathy bleeding from every pore of her body.

“She worried about you. She loved you.”

Past tense...

She’s only spoken in past tense about her wife.

Past tense...

And that’s all it was.

It was in the past tense.

Tris was in the past tense.

“And you know I love you right?” Roma asks, glancing from under the shield of her bangs, the small half smile welcoming you in as you smile back. “Good.”

 

\---

**BELLAMY**

It should have been weird when Lexa walked in. Hell, your entire life should be weird right now, but for some reason, the universe chose to smile down on you-- for once. In fact, nothing’s been weird, not too entirely weird at least. Waking up with Harper in your bed early this morning and another string of comments about “I shouldn’t be here” and “we shouldn’t have done this” and “I have to go,” was weird. The night you had before you dialed your ex-girlfriend’s number where you held your sister while she cried in the bathroom for hours was weird. Shit, arguing with Lexa at family game night was weird, but for some reason, it wasn’t as weird as it should have been.

When Lexa took her seat across from you and smiled at you, it was almost like everything was normal again-- whatever the fuck that meant.

Smiling back at your best friend, you open your mouth to speak, but she stops you, lifting a single finger to your lips and shushing your words before they exit your mouth. “Don’t speak,” she begins, lowering her hand to the table below. Wringing her fingers on the top of the wood, her eyes fall to them. “Just listen.” The silence around you is awkward at first, begging you to scream out your apologies, all of the words that you don’t even know why you find necessary but you do, but you don’t. You just sit, doing exactly as you’re told. “Do you hear that?” You want to say no. you want to tell her that you have no clue what the fuck she’s talking about. You want to just apologize, hug her, and walk out forever. But you don’t. Instead, your neck finds it in you to nod, her eyes smiling with her lips as she looks up and shakes her head. “No you don’t,” she replies to your silent gesture, lifting one hand to run it through her hair, pushing the locks that had fallen in front of her face back into the pile cascading down her back. “You don’t hear it at all, but that’s the sound of my world falling apart. That silence you hear?” She lifts a single finger into the air, her eyes glancing up at the space immediately over her head as they reflect the sun that is dancing through the blinds to your left. “That silence that holds you while you sleep is strangling each breath from my lungs. So I get it if you need to leave, but I think you’re running from your problems.”

With each word that she speaks, you find a new anger building up inside of you. Who does she think she is to even know what’s going on in your life? Who is she to even act like she’s got any clue on how you sleep (or don’t) or how you rest (or don’t) or how you eat (or don’t) or breathe (or don’t)? Who is she to pretend like she’s even been there?

“You mean like you do?” you bite a mumble through your coffee cup, lifting the liquid to your lips and averting your eyes as if her rage at your response would blind you. She was always like that-- calm and collected until she wasn’t.

You were always like that too.

Instead, she snorts a laugh, leaning over and taking your mug from your hands, laying it on the table in front of you with a smile. “Fuck yes, like I do.” Placing a warm hand on yours, she turns your attention away from the caramel colored liquid below you, forcing your eyes to meet hers. “That’s why I can call you on this bullshit.”

A smile forces itself from the corner of your lips as you bite down on the inside of your cheek, feeling the lingering wound that has taken its residence within your mouth. “I tell you what,” you offer, wondering how she’ll take your deal.

There’s honestly one of two ways that this could go. There’s only one of two ways that this should go. Either A: she’ll take it. She’ll agree. She’ll give you your space and she’ll help you through this. She’ll be your rehab and your therapist and your friend, just like she always promised.

Or B: She’ll tell you to go fuck yourself. After everything you’ve put them all through-- after all of the broken dishes she’s had to pick up and all of the 2am text messages and all of the time she spent talking you away from the cliff, she probably should. They all should.

But she won’t.

She never would.

Taking a deep breath, you exhale slowly, tightening your fingers around hers. You can feel her pulse in your hand, proof of the life before you...

And sometimes that’s all you need.

“I’ll tell you what; You’ve all got until Christmas to prove to me that it’s worth staying for.”

She smiles slightly, her thumb running across your bruised knuckles, each broken with another attempt to handle the darkened night. “That what’s worth staying for?” she asks before withdrawing her hands. You can tell the wheels are turning in her head, but the gears aren’t really clicking into place...

And why should they be?

You haven’t allowed her to see everything yet.

She doesn’t know exactly how alone you feel.

Pulling back your own hands into your lap, you wring your fingers, popping each one individually before turning back to her. “Everything.”

With a small snort and a smile, your friend thrusts her hand forward towards you. “Deal,” she says, offering her hand to shake on it. When you take it, she smiles wider before opening her mouth to speak again. “But you still owe me donuts.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, rolling your head back and your eyes with it as you reach down, pulling the small, grease covered bag from your backpack. “Take your goddamned donuts commander!”

When you toss the bag to her, she smiles, unrolling the top of it and taking the first glazed donut from the pile inside, spitting it into two before handing you a piece with a nod. “So when are you moving in?” she laughs when you take it, shoving the entire half into her mouth. “I mean, if things are going to back to the way they were then you’re going to have to move back into the guest room, right?”

You bite back the smile that’s dancing across your cheekbones, shoving the entire mound of dough into your mouth, following in suite. “What guest room?” you ask, the flash of recognition in her eyes drawing a laugh from her lips.

“Exactly,” she smiles, reaching into the bag and grabbing another donut. “We’ll go get your stuff after we finish these,” she laughs, offering you half of the donut before cramming the entire thing inside of her mouth instead, faking you out and stealing the whole donut.

\---

**LEXA**

It should be easier.

The thought has through your brain at least a hundred times. It’s while you’re pouring a drink. It’s while you’re smiling at some man that you don’t know. It’s while you’re tossing someone a pack of cigarettes or a matchbook. It’s while you’re refilling Henry’s beer and he’s asking you about your week. It’s every time you breathe or every time you blink or every time you hear your heart pounding in your ears. It’s seriously every moment of every day and in spite of the fact that your family might actually survive this, you don’t know if you will.

It’s the feeling of falling that you had when you answered that phone call from Macomb PD.

It’s the feeling of falling that you had when you heard those words: “Miss Woods, there’s been an accident.”

It’s the feeling of falling that you relive every day, watching as your little sister collapsed on the soccer field, convulsing violently just like Clarke did in your arms in the hospital bed.

It’s the feeling of falling that you remember in your gut when game security tackled you after you jumped the fence and sprinted towards your sister.

It’s every second of every day and it’s never going away.

“Hey gorgeous, you even listening to me?” Henry’s voice breaks your thoughts as you blink violently, drawing yourself back into the dark, smoky room around you. “Earth to Lexa Woods, my beer is empty.” The salt and pepper haired man laughs, waving his hand in front of your face before his humored expression drops, the saddened stare only slightly eclipsed by the moustache that you’ve grown accustomed to over the last 10 years.

Holy shit, has it really been 10 years since you started working here?

Has it really been that long since you lost them?

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” The old gentleman asks, his voice lowering into his glass as a new customer approaches the counter. The intruder orders his drink and leaves, the awkwardness emanating from his body as he scurries away with his Jagger and Coke. “Are you doing okay?”

Henry’s question shouldn’t come as a shock to you. Ever since you first started dating Clarke, you had begun opening up to the man while at work. It was just another side effect of that beautiful woman in your life-- she allowed you to see the good in everyone, even skeezy old men who spent too much time leaning on your bar top on week nights. His question shouldn’t have come as a shock to you, but it did.

But for once, you actually had an answer to that question.

For once, you were finally able to form words to explain it all.

“You know,” you begin, pouring another beer and handing it to him before taking the empty glass and dropping into the dish sink to your right. “Some days I’m okay. I’m sitting in my kitchen, breathing just fine as I’m making a sandwich and laughing with my wife about cat vides. Some days I’m actually enjoying things.” You sigh deeply, fighting off the catch in your throat as it begins choking you out, strangling the very words from your mouth as you struggle to continue. “And some days I’m not okay. Some days my inside are on fire and my brain feels like it’s been shut off and I feel like like i want to claw the organs out of my body just to keep myself from feeling anything. Some days I have to convince myself at stoplights not to just drive into the intersection and wait for the end of it all.” You can see the look on Henry’s face harden and you instantly begin to regret your honesty. That’s the same cock in his jaw that you saw in Lincoln each time you begged him to let you end it. It’s the same clench that existed in Bellamy’s teeth when he noticed the bandage across your hand at Clarke’s hospital room. It’s the same terror that emanated through... Tris... each time she found you crying in the bathroom. But it’s true... And you refuse to lie anymore. “The trouble is that they look exactly the same. I don’t know the difference until I’m finding my foot releasing the brake or my eyes scanning the kitchen for knives or watching the blood circle the drain while shaving my legs and wishing for something more.” You take another breath, not even bothering to hide the shudder in your chest as you exhale. “I mean, I’m sitting in my kitchen making a goddamned sandwich and no one can even tell that I’m crumbling inside... not even myself.”

Downing the rest of his beer, about half of a cup, the old man slams the glass down on the bar top before looking up at you again, licking his lips and nodding. “I get that,” he breathes lightly before asking you “Have I told you about my wife?”

Leaning in, you cross your arms over your chest, you elbows resting against the wooden bar top. “No,” you whisper, your hands catching the sides of your face. “I didn’t know you were married.”

He smiles, shaking his glass to you. Turning away, you take a deep breath gathering yourself as you pour him another beer and then turn to face him again, handing him the glass and leaving the empty one on the bar top. “Yup, married young, fell in love every day, then lost her just over 10 years ago.” He took a drink of his beer, smacking his lips before continuing, his eyes never leaving his glass. “That’s when I first walked into this bar. I mean, she was my first love, my first drink, my first life, my first everything.” He sighs before taking another drink and beginning again. “My first hearth break. My first crippling depressing that made it impossible to get out of bed. My first sea to drown in.”

You’re not really sure how to respond. You want to comfort your number one patron, but nothing you can say seems relevant. You want to reach out and hug him, but even that feels weird. Instead, you just stare, watching as he drinks more of his beer, the liquid lining the moustache covering his upper lip.

“Look,” he says to you lowering his glass and lifting his head. “I’m not trying to discount your pain, but I’m going to tell you something. If I could make it through that, you can make it through this.” He smiles up at you, looking you in your eyes for the first time. It’s then that you notice the color of his eyes-- the shimmering blue that you see every day in Clarke’s-- and you suddenly feel at home. “And I’ve known you for a long time Lexa, and I catch on to more than people give me credit for.” He reaches a hand over the bar, placing a hand on your forearm. His finger tips are cold as one finger dances its way up your skin, stopping on the large scar that lines your forearm with two taps. “And if you can survive that, then you can survive this.”

The half-smile that builds on your cheek is enough for him to return the smile, downing the small bit of alcohol in his glass. You nod to the man, refilling his beer before pouring yourself one as well. “To survival,” you offer, lifting your glass to the man. He snorts a small laugh before lifting his in return.

“No, to living,” the older man corrects you, clinking his glass gently against yours before taking a drink, finishing off half of his beer before you even pull your to your lips.

What does living even mean anymore?

I mean, do you honestly know?

But then you catch that blue and you remember.

You remember everything.

You remember her.

And your family.

You remember your nephew.

And you remember your sister...

And even if it hurts... even if it hurts like hell... remembering her is living.

“To living.”

\---

**CLARKE**

Halloween was always your least favorite holiday. I mean, until Lexa, Halloween meant dressing up and going out to parties with people dressed in slutty costumes who were constantly asking you why you were never dressed up. It was always the same set of answers that you circulated through, keeping them fresh by presenting a new one each year. You couldn’t find the right costume. You worked too late. You weren’t planning on having the night off. There was always a reason, but the truth was-- you were insecure.

But that changed when Lexa came into the picture. She made it easy to escape the fishnet and miniskirts. She made it fun to dress up as cops and robbers or iconic movie couples. She always had an idea and the joy that was always written across her face when you brought up Halloween almost made the years of turmoil worth it.

Especially this year when she came storming into the house with a bag in hand, thrusting it towards you with a large grin plastered across her blushed face. “I found this,” she gasped through the air that she attempted to take in, laughing slightly as your hands took the bags from her.

“Were you running?” You snorted a laugh, unrolling the plastic from where it had been gripped tightly between her fingers. The brunette swallowed slightly, the air fleeing from between her lips as she tried to steady her breathing.

“I wanted you to see this now!” For real, she came in like a hurricane from her car at the end of the driveway and was this much out of breath? She must have been booking it through your yard. Whatever is in this bag mush be the best thing on earth.

But when you opened it and saw a rolled up white t-shirt, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped from deep within your throat. As the song changed in the background of your living room, so did the expression on her face as her smile dropped instantly at your chuckle. And that’s when you knew you hurt her-- on her favorite holiday. “Babe,” you say, putting a hand on her face. “I’m sorry. I’m laughing at you, not.... this,” you say, as you pull the shirt from the bag, noting the second one at the bottom. The white fabric slipped between your fingers, hitting the floor at your toes. The red lettering showed itself before Lexa quickly jerked it up.

She smiled, unrolling the ball of cotton, holding it against her body. “No, this one’s mine!” she shouts as your eyes trace the words AND I’M NOT THE FATHER in the bold red letters. And then it hits you. You know exactly what yours says. “I figured,” she begins as you reach into the bag, pulling the second, orange shirt out of the plastic and holding it up in front of you, “You probably didn’t want to dress up this year, but I really wanted to do something still.” The words I’M PREGNANT plastered across the fabric with a design of a pumpkin across where your swollen stomach would sit are traced in red and black letters and bring a smile to your face. Lowering the shirt, you watch as Lexa’s smile wavers slightly. “Do you like it?” she asks you before a knock at your door interrupts your thoughts.

“I love it,” you say, reaching up on your toes to kiss her cheek as your hands ball the fabric against your chest. “I’ll wear it tonight!” you say as you begin to walk towards your door.

“Tonight?” she asks, following you to the hallway where she takes her claim against the living room door frame.

“It’s haunted house night with Roma and Bellamy,” you remind her, rolling your eyes as her lack of memory. Of course she doesn’t remember. She’s worked pretty much every day for the last two weeks, taking on doubles and even triple shifts while you were at the hospital. She had been so incredibly busy with work and stressing over her few remaining classes that you had honestly not even really heard about recently...

In fact, now that you think about it, Lexa hadn’t been going to school. There was no way. With working at the dinner then going straight to the bar, helping Bellamy fix up things around the house, visiting you at the hospital and still finding time to sleep, there was no way that she had been to school in at least three weeks...

“Hey,” you ask as your hand reaches the door handle, turning the metallic arm slowly. “How’s school been going?” Turning your head quickly, you catch the slightly terror on her face before she swallows it back down, greeting your sister-in-law that pushed her way through your door, wrapping her arms around you before you knew any better.

That look in her eyes told you enough.

Lexa wasn’t going to school anymore...

“Hey my gorgeous sisters,” Roma laughs into your ears before she pulls away, putting a hand on your stomach. “And how’s my niece?”

“You don’t know it’s a girl!” Lexa huffs, arguing as she grabs Roma’s shoulder, pulling her in tightly to your wife’s grip. The two make jokes back and forth for a moment before Lexa releases the younger brunette who jingles her keys in your face.

“Let’s go homos. Where’s your husband?” Her eyes turn back to Lexa who snorts a laugh, shouting down the hallway to Bellamy.

Honestly, when Lexa came home with Bellamy in tow and a truck full of boxes, you wanted to murder her. Okay, so maybe murder was a bit extreme, but you wanted to scream. With everything else going on and the overwhelming stress of life in general, the last thing that you wanted was to share that stress with someone else, especially after all of the things that he had said at Octavia’s that night.

But something was different. He seemed freer... calmer... more at peace. It wasn’t perfect-- far from it. His shouts still littered the quiet air some nights, the sounds of him crying in the neighboring room others, but more times than not, family dinner was marked with conversation and laughs that made the sudden crowdedness in your home worth it. If nothing else, it felt more like home when you awoke to the sounds of laughter in your kitchen as Lexa managed to burn water and Bellamy harassed her about not being able to even cook vegetables without burning something or returned from work to the smell of coffee and the echoing arguments about literature and politics from the living room. It took you back to the times before all of this shit hit the fan. It took you back to when family game nights weren’t littered with strained conversation about death and drug addictions. It took you back to when you were still learning to breathe.

“Oh my god I’m coming homos!” your friend shouts, pulling a shirt over his bare shoulders as he exits his room. “Jesus, you’re all so pushy!” His stringy hair falls in front of his face, the small amount of stubble that he’s even been able to grow shadowing his jaw as he jerks the keys from Roma’s hands, continuing on his path out the door. “You act like the haunted house is going to close early tonight or something...”

Lexa laughs, making her way down the hall to where Bellamy’s room was, reaching in through the cracked door and flipping the light switch off, pulling the door closed behind her. “I swear to God Bellamy Blake, if you do not turn off lights I’m going to start charging you rent!” You laugh as he waves his hands in the air, mumbling some response to your wife who brushes past you, kissing your cheek as she passes. “And your room already smells!”

“Well yours always smells like sex, so you can’t talk!” He yells, unlocking the door to Roma CRV, sliding into the driver’s seat like he owns it. “And if you’re in such a hurry, let’s go!”

Roma chuckles at their false argument that continues as the two of you make your way down the driveway, sliding into the backseat of the CRV while she complains about not being able to drive her own car.

“Learn directions and we’ll let you drive, kiddo,” Lexa laughs before she silences herself quickly, swallowing down her own words.

The silence lingers in the vehicle for a moment as you all take in that last word.

Kiddo.

The name she always gave to Tris.

“Hey, who’s going to be the first to piss themselves?” Bellamy laughs, clearing his throat before trying to dispel the tension.

You all chuckle as you offer up different ideas but one thing sticks with the group as everyone but you agree.

You’re going to be the first one to cry inside of the haunted house.

“Assholes,” you mumble, smiling as your stare shifts towards the fields outside of the car, the trees passing quickly beside you. For the first time you realize it...

You’re not scared.

\---

**LEXA**

The three level haunted house at Calder Nightmare Farm was not what you expected it to be. Sure, the videos and websites always elaborated a little bit, but this was extreme. Between the pushy actors who handed you tic-tacs and yelled at you to take your medicine, the cliché mental asylum themes in some of the buildings, and the assholes who kept yelling that they were going to eat your wife’s unborn child, you were beginning to lose patience. Sure, it was their job, but it was getting old... or maybe it was just you. Maybe you were just getting old.

But then again, everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. With Bellamy in the front, Clarke gripped tightly to the back of his shirt (he managed to mention this around every turn through the coughs of his choking as she pulled tightly at the purple fabric around his neck, Roma behind her, holding to Clarke’s hand and you heading up the rear with one hand on Roma’s shoulder, your group successfully navigated through the first two levels of the haunted house with ease. In fact, the only stutter in your step was when Clarke had to stop and puke outside of one of the buildings.

Actually, it was sort of funny how it all happened. You see, Clarke’s sickness was fairly manageable and only a few things set her off. One of these few things, however, much to Bellamy’s dismay was cinnamon-- more in particularly, the scent of Old Spice Deodorant. When Bellamy changed deodorants after moving in, the imminent threat of Clarke losing her lunch was pushed far from your mind-- until the poor teenage carnival worker in elaborate stage make-up that made him look like a murder victim approached her and growled at her, receiving a grumble and a shoe full of vomit in response.

Other than Clarke blowing chunks across the staff, the evening was marked with only laughter and smiles. And the last haunted house happened.

It was almost instant. The small brunette danced her way up to your friends, her hair brushed back from her face that was painted up with bruises and cuts, the make-up almost too convincing. “Wanna play a game with me?” She asked, playing the part of possessed child well as she waved you on, ushering you all into the next room. Roma reached her hand back, gripping tightly to your fingers that ached as soon as she touched you. You could feel the change in her energy before you even noticed the ripped up jersey that hung from the shoulders of the actor, the number 19 barely noticeable on the generic fabric through the costume paint and tattered remains of the cloth.

“You okay?” you whisper into her ear, leaning in just enough to feel the tremble that escapes her lips to your right. She squeezes your hand tighter in hers, swallowing deeply before nodding-- a lie that you believe.

Of course she’s not okay, but she’s trying.

None of you are okay, but you’re trying.

Bellamy stops the train quickly before entering the next room, slamming the door shut behind him. He turns back to you, the neon letters graffitied across the black, wooden makeshift walls reflecting in the black light just enough to illuminate his eyes as he shakes his head. “Not happening,” he says, swallowing deeply before pushing the group back a bit. “I’m not taking us in there.”

The actor then flings the door behind him open, throwing her body against its wooden frame as she lets out a shriek, causing your friend to jump.

Maybe taking Bellamy into haunted houses wasn’t the best idea...

Catching his arm just as he draws back, Clarke holds tightly to his bicep as the fake, over exaggerated laughter of the teenage girl in front of you echoes through the air. “Let’s go inside! I’ve got plenty of games to play!” She claps her hands, smiling as she bounces and disappears behind the wooden slab of a door, leaving the four of you in the hallway again.

“Come on you bitches,” Roma swallows deeply, releasing your hand and pushing up to where Bellamy is, steering clear of Clarke who glances back at you cautiously.  “I mean, unless you think you’re going to be the first to pee your pants!”

Your sister-in-law throws the door open quickly, taking two steps into the room before freezing just past the doorway. From ten feet behind her you can see the tremble that begins in her chest, trailing down her arms and legs until it takes over her body entirely. Bellamy shoots in before you even see it happening, catching her as she falls to the floor, her hands pulled tightly to her chest. Even through the sounds of the haunted house you can still hear  the tears as they violently exist her eyes, each carrying with it a sob and another attempt to inhale, each stifled by the next.

Taking a step into the room, you glance around, seeing nothing but bedsheets strung across an overly elaborate bedframe, each connected to the next to build a large fort that seemed to take up the entirety of the room.

“Wanna play in the fort?” The actor shouts, jumping from the bed into the space just in front of Roma and Bellamy before her act drops, taking the false cockiness and cynical humor with it. “Jesus Christ,” she mumbles, falling to her knees in front of Roma. “Are you alright?”

If anyone had ever told you that you would see haunted house worker show compassion to someone who was crying within their walls, then you would have laughed at them, but Calder Nightmare Mansion proved that wrong as a man with an axe sticking out of his back and a woman with half of her face peeled away helped you and Bellamy carry your sister-in-law through the empty halls of the staff corridors. Seeing the undecorated walls and doors labeled with the names of the rooms on the other side made the whole idea of a haunted house mildly less appealing-- but so did carrying Roma to the exit while she violently heaved, inhaling more air than she could exhale as she attempted to apologize over and over again.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, taking her seat on a log at the exit, the sounds of shouts and sinister laughter serenading her trembling shudders.

“Stop,” Bellamy consoles her, crouching to rest his crossed arms on her knees, looking her straight in the eyes. You watched as he maintained eye contact with her, inhaling deeply and urging her do to the same, pushing the air slowly through his lips. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re allowed to miss her.”

You don’t like being lost, but something about the connection between the two of them at this moment makes it alright. Something about the way that Bellamy seems to be able to console her when you can’t even comprehend what’s going on causes you to relax your shoulders. Something about the way that he says the word ‘her’ allows you to feel.

You don’t know what you’re feeling, but it allows you to feel, and that’s when you notice the tears that have started racing down your own cheeks.

You glance over at your wife who is resting a single hand on Bellamy’s shoulder, her orange shirt hugging tightly to the bump housing your child. She looks over to you, turning the corner of her lips up at you, nudging her head to the side, asking you to join her away from the two. Nodding slightly, you step to your right, wiping the tears from your eyes.

You don’t know what you’re feeling, but you’re all feeling it.

\---

**CLARKE**

It’s now or never.

How could she say no?

But how could she say yes?

After you gave her such a hard time for bringing Bellamy into your already growing house, how could she even humor the idea of adding another to your crowded abode?

But after Roma’s melt-down just now, how could she say no?

It was now or never and when Lexa walked over with you, taking your hand in hers as you walked away from your friends, you knew it had to be now.

“I want Roma to move in with us,” you exhale the worlds quickly, not even giving her time to process before you begin speaking again. Turning to face her, you take both of her hands in yours. “I’ve been thinking about it and I know that we’re running out of room but she can have my studio and I know that it can’t be permanent but I just don’t want her to be alone ou...”

And before you can finish your sentence, or whatever run on version of it was leaving your lips, Lexa was pressed against those same lips, kissing you gently as she tightened her fingers into yours. “Okay,” she whispers once she pulls away, leaning her forehead on yours. You nudge your face into hers, inhaling deeply her scent and noticing the wetness of her tears against your cheeks. “I’m game.” She kisses you once more, quickly before turning around to make her way towards Roma.

Bellamy stands, offering the seat that he had taken next to her to your wife and walking over to you. “You told her?” he asks, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you say, watching as Roma protests almost silently, shaking her head before Lexa lays her hands on top of your younger girl’s knees. “What happened in there?” You ask him, turning your face to look at him. He clenches his jaw, inhaling before swallowing and pushing the air through his nose. “She’s breaking down. Everything is just another memory of what was.” He turns his face towards you, pulling your head into his lips as they meet with your forehead. “She’s going to make it,” he mumbles, allowing his hand to fall from your head back to your shoulder.

“Will she?” you ask him, turning back to your wife and sister-in-law, watching as Lexa continues to argue against the young girl as the lie ‘I’m fine’ leaves her lips. “Will we?”

Bellamy nods, pursing his lips and looking up into the sky. “Yeah,” he says. “We all will.”

“Do it for me then?” you hear Lexa beg, taking Roma’s hands in her own. “Because I need you.”

Roma snorts a small laugh that you can hear even through your distance before hugging Lexa. And you know that it’s done. Every bed in your house is now accounted for and all of your rooms are filled, but strangely enough you’re completely at peace with this idea.

You’re totally fine with all of this.

\---

**BELLAMY**

Closing the tailgate of your truck, you can’t help but smile at the brunette staring at you through the rear windshield. Roma smiles back before turning around in the seat, each box of her apartment finally packed up after over seven hours of work. The sun was rising and Clarke was asleep in the backseat sitting next to Roma, her head pushed against the window while Lexa carried the last of Roma’s few remaining belongings not being left at the small apartment until the storage truck arrived later for it. Placing the last box into the bed of your truck, she smiled, playing a hand on your shoulder and exhaling slowly.

“That’s it,” your friend says as the song on the inside of the truck changes, the piano ringing out Peter Bradley Adams into the pink and orange sky around you. The reflection of the light against the neighboring cars forces the soft hue into your eyes, as you wipe the beads of sweat from your forehead. You lick your lips before nodding to her, smiling through half of your lips.

_Oh Los Angeles we leave you now. At the setting of your skies. As we leave the comfort of your ground. With your angels we will fly._

“That is,” you say, patting her arm before making your way around the car, opening the driver’s side door and taking your seat, leaving your left foot on the concrete below for a moment as you breathe in the outside air once more, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly as the still rising sun danced its way across the hood of your truck.

_Well you carried us in broken dreams. Like a mother does her sons. We were scattered ‘cross your dirty streets. We were dying one by one._

Lexa crawling into the passenger seat, closing the door gently and turning back to the occupants of the backseat. She looked over at Clarke with a smile, reaching out to pull the jacket back over the blonde’s arms. Clarke simply shrugged the coat back up onto her shoulders, returning to her slumber without even opening her eyes. Turning to Roma, Lexa offers a smile and a small “ready?”, receiving only a nod in return. You friend turns in her seat, pulling the seatbelt over her shoulders before turning to you. “Let’s go home.”

_And you held us in your city lights. When our eyes had lost the stars. And we made our peace with lonely nights. And you healed our broken hearts._

Home. What a funny word. What a true word. Home had gone from being an apartment shared with the new blonde nurse who was just looking for a way out of her shitty situation to a house shared with the love of your life who you chased away to a place that you now shared with a group of your closest friends filled with laughter and love-- even when you didn’t deserve it. Home was never a place that you thought of only in fairy tales and bedtime stories. Home had always been right where you were-- even if you changed buildings over and over again. Home was where they were.

_Well they say the Big One's gonna come. And you'll fall into the sea. We will know that then your work is done. And your angels will go free._

“Let’s go asshole,” Lexa urges you, reaching over to ruffle your hair before slapping your cheek slightly with a small laugh. “I’m tired.”

You snort a laugh, pulling your foot into the vehicle and closing the door, and shifting the still running truck into drive, peeling out of the parking lot slowly and taking the first left onto the interstate. “Yeah,” you say at last after a moment of silence. “Let’s go home.”


	13. NOVEMBER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys. With the ClexaKru Fluff off, working on another project, starting a writing project I wasn't planning on doing, and just life overall, I sort of dropped the ball on this one, but here's 19k words to make up for it. Let me know what you think. It's almost December!
> 
> CHECK OUT THE SOUNDTRACK: http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4  
> if 8tracks doesn't work, check it on youtube at: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLau3zdws8xXpu579LVpujJNhGyjGwxmrB  
> ADD ME ON TUMBLR: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

**CLARKE**

 

Waking up should have been stressful. Getting out of bed should have exhausted you. Waking into the hallway should have escalated your blood pressure. Entering your kitchen should have sent you over the edge…

 

But it didn’t.

 

In fact, when you walked into a hectic kitchen to broken eggs on the floor, three bodies eagerly shuffling back and forth, the smell of burning emanating from the stove, and the sounds of playful banter and kitchen utensils serenading each step, you had never felt more at ease. With Bellamy stirring something in a large bowl, Lexa arguing with him about the consistency of the liquid within his blue bowl and Roma hard at work chopping a tomato beside them with a large grin plastered across her face, the kitchen had never been more cluttered, crowded, and alive.

And you had never been happier to be in this house.

 

“She awakes!” Bellamy shouts out from across the room, small red scratches lining his jaw, waving the spoon in his hands around and splattering the off-white liquid across the counter that Lexa had just wiped down with a cloth.

 

“Jesus Christ boy!” your wife protests, throwing the rag at his face and earning a quick flick of the spoon towards her own, the mixture meeting her skin with a hiss from her lips. “Clarke, I’m going to kill our roommates today.”

 

As your wife turns towards you, closing the distance between your bodies, you can’t help but notice the small bruising on her cheek. It’s tiny and almost eclipsed by her attempt to cover it with foundation, but it’s there, lingering just under her eye. When you move to reach a hand to it, she stops you, her fingers pulling yours back down and her head shaking, the look in her eye begging you not to.

 

“Hey, I’m not doing anything!” Roma argues, swinging the knife around with a smile as she turns on one heel to face the two of you. “It’s all that stinky asshole’s fault!” Your sister-in-law points the blade at Bellamy who shakes his head, his mass of curly hair dancing across his forehead.

“Nope, not it!”

 

But you’re not even listening to them anymore. In the haze of silver appliances, black tile, and morning festivities all you can see clearly is the blue and purple that lines the top of her cheek bone, pushing its way through the make-up caked delicately and blended into her complexion.

This was your only concern when Bellamy came into your home.

 

Shit, you had lived with the man for two years and never even knew of his struggles. Sure, there were the random times where he would disappear for days at a time. There were the patches in the drywall and the tell-tale signs of his war, but for the most part, it had never even occurred to you that he was fighting off the demons inside of his head.

 

Maybe it was you...

 

Or maybe the struggle wasn’t as loud...

 

But he had gotten worse. He had gotten more hostile and violent. He had begun retaliating against all of your family’s attempts to help him. Fuck, he had pulled a knife on Harper and beat Lincoln to the ground-- both within the last 6 months. Who’s to say that he wouldn’t hit you?

 

Or Roma?

 

Or Lexa?

 

But if you were going to be honest about all of this, there was one specific moment that you could pinpoint his steady decline. There was one specific occurrence that directly correlated with the emergence of his aggression and hostility. There was one specific time where it all began...

 

And it was you.

 

It was your wreck...

 

And more in specifically, it was your healing and the dramatic process that went into all of that.

That’s when it started. That’s when you remember the first time that everything seemed to fall to hell for Bellamy.

 

_It’s your first day out of the hospital and nothing has ever felt more right then walking up the stairs to your apartment and sliding that key into the doorknob, watching as the giant wooden slab slides across the carpet and the cold air meets your face from behind it. It smells like you remember-- coffee and cooked apples (or whatever synthetic form of so comes from candles). Throwing your shoes off, you ignore the pulsating in your hip, the pressure from your leg cramping up across your thigh. No, you’re more focused on the feeling of the carpet against your feet, tickling each nerve ending as you wiggle your toes against the beige sea below._

_“Get inside Griffin,” Bellamy laughs as he nudges past you gently, one arm holding your bag from the hospital while the other holds to your hip, keeping you from falling-- just in case. “It’s hot outside.”_

 

_You can’t stop the chuckle that leaves your lips as he continues down the hallway, entering the door that you remember to be yours. “You okay?” Lexa asks from behind you, her hand finding the same place that Bellamy’s just occupied before the other mimicked it on the opposite hip. You nod, leaning back against her._

 

_“I forgot what it felt like,” you say with a small snort. The smile returns to your lips, your eyes closing._

 

_Tightening her grip, Lexa leans her head down onto your shoulder, resting her forehead on your skin. “How what feels?” she asks you, her voice tickling your neck as she breathes out._

 

_You cringe, lifting your shoulder against her and receiving a laugh in return. “Carpet... The air... Home,” all of the words leave your mouth quickly, each forcing the smile wider with each syllable._

 

It was some of the happiest times for you-- even through the stress of acclimation. Even through the nightmares, waking in cold sweats, hearing Lexa thrash in her sleep, and fighting through the pains in both your leg and you head, it was still some of the best moments of your life.

 

But while things were changing for the better for you, a butterfly effect if you had ever seen one was playing itself out in the bedroom next to yours.

 

And it was pretty much all because of you.

 

_The loud crashing from the room next to yours wailed out in the darkness illuminated only by the clock placed on the table next to your bed. Honestly, it sounded as if someone had set off a grenade just beyond your walls... or dropped a house on the room next to yours._

 

_“What the fuck was that?” Lexa grumbled through the war between your hair and hers that covered her face. Sitting up, she stretched her arms out, a large yawn exiting her mouth as her hands rolled circles on the ends of her arms. You shrug, turning your head to see the red numbers written across the clock._

 

_4:53AM_

 

_Goddamnit Bellamy Blake. You couldn’t wait another 7 minutes to wake you up? You know... when you were actually supposed to be getting up to get ready for work?_

 

_Your first day back at the hospital._

 

_“I’m going to go check on him,” she growls through her groggy morning voice, rolling over to kiss you before stepping off of the bed on your side, her body rolling over yours gently. You smile as she leaves the room, still feeling the presence of her lips on yours until her voice screams out through the wall between you two. “Clarke! Get in here!”_

 

_The panic builds in you as you leap from the bed, ignoring the pain shooting though your still recovering hip as you bolt into the room next door, the sheet from your bed clearing the room with you._

 

_Within the blur of blood and scattered book pages, you see Lexa crouching to the floor, pushing Bellamy’s resistant body back to the ground as he struggles against her, the bookcase from beside his bed splintered across the room._

 

That wasn’t the last time that you found Bellamy covered in blood. That wasn’t the last time that he broke something in his search for control. There were nights when he returned home with bruised knuckles and blood on his shirt, the red and purple rings forming on his face and knuckles from brawls and arguments with human beings and brick walls alike. There were nights when you heard the shouts from within your own walls, listening as Lexa attempted to calm him before silence fell over your house.

 

It seemed to get better.

 

It seemed to stabilize when he started therapy again.

 

But then it stopped.

 

And now you found yourself here, standing in front of your bruised wife as the perpetrator of her assault stood only feet from you with a grin plastered across his cheeks.

 

“Hey,” Lexa whispers to you, holding each of your hands tightly in hers. “We’ll talk about it later.” She squeezes your hands tighter before releasing them, kissing your nose. You can only nod, swallowing deeply before his voice interrupts you, sending a shiver through your spine.

“Earth to heart eyes over there,” Bellamy laughs, a balled up piece of parchment paper landing between the two of you to hit you in the face gently. “Are you two going to actually help make breakfast or are you going to just take up room in the kitchen?”

 

You’ve never really been afraid of Bellamy Blake. I mean, not really. Sure, he scared you at moments, but you’ve never in your life harbored an actual fear against him that was withstanding...

 

Until now.

 

You never thought that he could hurt you...

 

Or her...

 

Until now.

And with each word that left his mouth, you felt something that you had never felt before.

 

You were terrified of your roommate. You were terrified of one of your best friends.

 

\---

 

**LEXA**

 

The swelling in your cheek had already started to go down, but the conversation point that arose

with the bruise did not. You had managed to push Clarke’s concerns off, but that doesn’t mean that they were gone. She was obviously still upset-- this was apparent by the plethora of texts that you had received from your panicking wife.

 

But could you blame her?

 

He had obviously hit you-- even if it wasn’t really him.

 

No one seemed to understand this. No one seemed to get that when Bellamy did these things that he wasn’t responsible. Sure, he’s still responsible. He’s not a child, but he’s not at the same time. It’s not him. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He doesn’t want to push everyone away.

 

But it happened and nothing can change that.

 

Pouring the Yuengling into the frosted glass, you side the overpriced beer over to the man two seats away who had done nothing but make comments about your necklace and the ring on your finger, his suit coat almost catching the mug to overturn it on your counter. You couldn’t help but chuckle slightly as he stumbled with the glass, the stutter in his step widening your grin. There’s only so many times that a man who reeks of liquor and adultery can reach out to grab your necklace as an excuse to touch your chest before you no longer feel sympathy.

 

Had it been a different time, you may have spit in his drink...

 

But then again, he might like that. People are weird sometimes.

 

With the exception of the middle aged Christian Grey at the bar, your only remaining customers were a couple in the corner who had done nothing but order Tequila shots and bitch about you not having karaoke and an old man at the corner who never spoke but rather just nodded his thanks when you replaced his beer mug for the third time. His attention was directed solely at the Sudoku in yesterday’s newspaper and he paid no mind as you lingered longer at his end of the bar, glancing quickly between you and the business man in the red button down before snorting a small laugh and returning to his puzzle.

 

Tuesdays were slow-- always were, but for once, you were comfortable with the extra time to think. It made answering Clarke’s texts easier. It gave you more time to think about what to say and how to help.

 

But it also gave you more time to realize how useless you actually were.                           

 

As if anything you ever did actually helped.

 

“What it do, Miss Lexa,” the blue eyes greet you with a soft voice, sliding into his regular chair in front of you. Henry folded his rough hands into each other on the fresh wiped bar in front of him, his trademarked beige windbreaker protecting his bare arms from the water and bleach mixture below. “Slow day?”

 

“Always,” you smile over at him, thankful for the momentary relief from boredom and trashy business men who are hiding out from their wives. Henry is always there to save you-- from boredom on Tuesdays and sleezeballs every day of the week.

 

“I mean, can you blame him?” the old man’s smile lingers as your hand him a beer, pouring yourself a glass as well before you turn back to him, lifting the frothy mug to your lips. Your expression warrants his explanation without words. “I mean, your boobs are on point today Miss Lexa.”

 

You almost snort the beer out of your nose, choking deeply as you slam the glass down on the wooden counter, attracting the attention of the Sudoku master in the corner before he smiles and returns to his paper, flipping the page over to the crossword puzzle. “Not you too! You’re supposed to be my safe place old man!” Henry laughs at your response, taking a drink from his own glass before lowering it again and cocking his head to the side.

 

“And you have this fight club charm going on right now,” he says, his smile dropping with each word as he lifts his hand, two fingers pointed to tap your cheek. You try to hide the wince when his fingers meet with your bruise, but obviously you fail as he pulls back quickly, apologizing before balling his fists together and looking at you head on. The dad look is alive and well in his stare and you know it’s coming. “What happened sweetheart? Where did you get the shiner?”

 

Swallowing deeply, you begin the lie that you rehearsed over and over again, knowing that this conversation was inevitable with someone today. Fox slides past you, making sure to hip check you into the bar with a small laugh before you reach out a foot to trip the younger girl behind the bar. She hisses her reply, a smile still etched across her face before she grabs two stacks of glasses and returns to the back room, comments about your flirtatious ways leaving her lips even after she’s out of sight.

 

“I was helping a friend move,” you lie, the words flowing from your lips almost too easily. “I turned too quickly around a turn and got in a fight with a box.” You laugh a little to reinforce the lie, but it’s clearly not selling.

 

Henry lifts the drink to his lips, finishing off the rest of the glass before setting the empty mug in front of your, pursing his lips and offering a fake “mhmm,” through his cocked jaw. “Not buying it Miss Lexa.” Sighing deeply, you take his glass, refilling it and handing it back to the man before taking another deep breath.

 

“Okay,” you sigh again, leaning onto the bar and closing the distance between you two. You can smell the beer on his breath and you’re honestly uncomfortable with the proximity, but speaking these words feel like uttering a secret. You know it’s not. It’s obviously written across your face, literally and figuratively, but speaking of last night feels like betrayal.

 

Like you’re outing Bellamy Blake to the world.

 

Like your announcing the demons that aren’t yours to tell.

 

“He’s going through some things,” you say, not even knowing how word exactly what’s happening. “He didn’t mean to, but things happen, you know?

 

“Nope, Miss Lexa,” the old man says, pulling the new beer to his life for the first time. “I don’t. Because you’re not anyone’s punching bag.” The foam on his moustache causes you to smile as you push your body off of the bar, watching a new patron stumble their way into your smoky darkness from outside.  

 

Pouring their drink, you hand it to them with a smile before returning back to your friend. “It’s more complicated than that,” you say, reaching under the bar for a bottle of rum, pouring two shots into the glasses and returning the bottle to its home.

 

“Then tell me about it,” he says, taking the shot and lifting it in front of you. “What’s going on?”

 

_It shouldn’t have woken you. Hell, normally on days that you work at the dinner, things never wake you, but this time it was different. The chime of the alarm attached to the door cried out, warning you about the open door, but stopping quickly, having been silenced by the same four numbers that you type every day when you leave and return. It's not like you ever expected anyone to break into your house-- hell, half of the time your back door was unlocked anyway, but it helped you sleep better on the nights when you were at the bar if you knew that Clarke would be taken care of when no one was around._

 

_And those four numbers, each singing a small ding while whoever it was that was leaving typed them in allowed you to begin drifting back to to sleep. It was probably just Bellamy or Roma. I mean, everyone knew your code, so it could have been someone coming it, but it was late. Who would be coming to visit you at…_

 

_Fuck those lights were bright. The numbers on the clock violently shouted out 4:22am to you when you turned your head just slightly, gathering a face full of Clarke's hair. It was everywhere... always was... even on your half of the bed... but let's be honest. You don't have a half of the bed. That's hers too. As is your pillow. And you half of the blankets. It was always hers._

 

_As your eyes closed again, a small yawn escaping your lips and making your ears pop against the small sliver of pillow that remained below your head, you listened into the darkness for footsteps, the absolute quiet serenading you back to sleep._

 

_Until it happened again. The chime of the door opening, this time ending with just the two cries of an opened door. Lifting you head, you listened for the heavy feet of Roma or the shuffling steps of Bellamy but found nothing. Instead, silence again greeted you, leaving you nearly alone listening only to the soft snores exiting Clarke's lungs. Sliding your arm out from behind her head, you watched her roll into the small ball that she normally took in your absence, her hand pulling tightly to her stomach, holding close the baby within._

 

_She was perfect for this._

 

_Sliding off of your side of the bed, you shuffle your feet through the house, cautiously navigating past Roma's shoes that litter the hallway, Bellamy's jacket that's taken refuge in the threshold of the living room, then the stack of books that has somehow flooded into the wooden floor below. Since opening your doors to your family members, your house had become more crowded, but honestly, you wouldn't have it any other way. This was exactly where you wanted to be._

 

_But you wondered the same for them._

 

_And this thought crossed your mind again when you saw the shadow of your best friend shuffling its way out the door, his running shoes laced up for the first time since he moved in with you and his windbreaker pulled over his shoulders. Grabbing your shoes, you follow him out the door, keeping a distance as you just watch. It started as a light jog, just a simple pace where the two of you honestly could have held a conversation with ease. This was normal. I mean a run at 4am is weird even for Bellamy, but no one sleeps well all of the time._

 

_At the first turn, his pace increases, a little at first until releasing into a full fledged sprint. Inhaling deeply and mumbling a slur of profanity, you shoot after him, pumping your arms as well as you could, watching each time this foot hits the ground, waiting for him to turn on you at any moment. It's not like you're the quietest of runners. He's often compared you to a dinosaur running through the streets, stomping with each tap (or stomp) of your heel. If your footsteps weren't enough, your breathing could have probably been heard from a mile away. By the time you reach the fifth turn, you're about ready to give up…_

 

_Until you reach the corner and turn onto an empty street. Coming to a stop, you stumble over your own feet, waving your arms through the air as if something there would catch you..._

 

_And it does…_

 

_Until he shoves you to the ground, following your body as it falls. You bring your hands to your face, protecting your eyes in the only way you know how from the hands that are throwing wild punches towards you. When you manage to catch a breath, it takes only a moment for his hands to find your throat, reaching through your guard and pushing down on your neck, holding your head to the concrete below. You can feel the swelling from a landed punch already surfacing on your cheek bone, but that doesn't matter now. All that matters is your closing windpipe and the glazed over look on your friend's eyes._

 

_He looks broken..._

 

_absent..._

 

_scared..._

 

_mad..._

 

_And somehow, all of these things at once._

 

_"Why are you following me?" Bellamy growls out to you, his jaw clenched tightly while you reach up on hand, digging your nails into the side of his neck. The vein just under his skin in his neck pulsates as he clenches and releases his teeth, grumbling as your hand pushes against his head, trying to throw him off._

 

_It's like you're talking to a stranger in your friend's body. Nothing is registering and just like every time before, he's absent. "Bellamy," you gasp, digging your nails into the hand around your throat while you continue to push on his jaw. "It's me-- your best friend. Get the fuck off."_

 

_He laughs slightly, giving you just enough space between your bodies to roll him off of you. Sprinting to your feet, you take a few steps back, stumbling over the shoes on your feet... fuck, stumbling over your feet... over the ground... over gravity... over air._

 

_But when you finally regain yourself, your eyes lift from the ground that had caused you so much trouble to an empty street again. A car turning onto the road slowed as it passed you, leaving you alone in the silence, taking the brightness of its headlights with it. With only the light of the streetlamps above, you glance around into the empty void surrounding you, listening into the silence._

 

_He can’t be gone._

 

_He wouldn’t give up that easily._

 

_After a few more moments, you finally drop your shoulders, your hands collapsing beside you and the air fleeing from your chest where it’s been trapped with the tension in your upper body. Exhaustion floods over you like a wave on the coast and you take the first steps on you walk back home, not even caring about your surroundings until you turn the last corner onto your street._

 

_He’s there. You sort of knew that he would be, but still it surprised you. Maybe you were still expecting him to be dissociated. Maybe you were expecting him to be asleep. Hell, maybe you were expecting him to be gone, the door wide open still with no traces of your housemate. You don’t know exactly what you expected, but it wasn’t Bellamy Blake sitting on the curb of your house, icepack held against his jaw and his face dropped to the floor._

 

_When you squatted beside him, taking the seat immediately to his right, you couldn’t tell if it was shock or comfort that took over his shoulders and prompted him to lift a shaking hand, placing it on your knee._

 

_“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, the sounds of his voice almost entirely masked by the trembling in his throat. Swallowing deeply, he coughed slightly before turning a tear streaked face to you. “I’m so sorry.”_

 

Henry swallowed his drink, sighing deeply as he handed you the empty glass, sliding his body from the barstool below him and straightening the beige windbreaker over his grey polo, glancing back over you once more. “Miss Lexa, I still stand by my statement. Your boy’s a hero, but even heroes need help sometimes.”

 

Taking a deep breath, you nod, turning quickly to return the mug behind the counter before a familiar face stops you in your tracks from the place where the man with the newspaper previously sat.

 

“Harper,” the name escapes your lips just a second before the smile spread across your cheeks at the sight of your old friend.

 

\---

 

**CLARKE**

 

“Look at me. I’m pregnant too!” Bellamy laughs as you walk past him, the bowling ball under his shirt grazing your stomach as you pass. He stops quickly, turning to wrap an arm around you as Octavia lifts her phone, snapping a picture of the two of you and laughing at your faces. “And Clarke’s the father,” Bellamy adds, pointing to you. “Clarke the husband—has a nice ring to it.”

 

As you friend pulls the bowling ball from his shirt and starts walking towards the lane to take his turn, you can hardly hold back the snort trying to exit your mouth. “Please don’t,” you beg of him, glancing over Octavia’s shoulder as she continues tying the snapchat text before hitting send. “I don’t need everyone thinking that I’m the husband here.”

 

“Because let’s be honest,” Octavia smiles, sliding her phone into her back pocket before pushing her brother as he passes through your conversation. “Lexa’s totally the bottom anyway.”

 

Bellamy laughed loudly, taking his seat next to the score table and lifting the beer to his lips before speaking again. “Oh no,” your curly haired friend started, the redness already filling your face. “From what I’ve heard..”

 

“And we’re done,” Octavia grumbles, taking a ball from the chute and making her way to the end of the lane before haphazardly tossing it directly into the gutters. “I hate this fucking game,” she continues to growl, taking the seat next to her brother while reaching for the beer in his hands.

“Get your own,” he argues, pulling away from his sister as you laugh, reaching for your ball.

 

After your shot, the game ends with Bellamy in the lead, you in second, and Octavia in last, still complaining about how dumb bowling is even into the parking lot where you say your goodbyes.

 

“The baby sitter is probably losing her mind right now,” Bellamy jokes with Octavia, poking at how the tiny brunette never stays out late with you two.

 

“Probably,” she laughs back, reaching over to hug you. “Text me tomorrow, okay?” she asks, you nodding. “Bye asshole,” her voice reaches as does her arm to connect with Bellamy’s chest. The man next to you fakes a cringe as he pushes her away, turning towards you finally.

 

“Dinner?” he asks, pulling his keys from his pocket with a smile.

 

Nights like tonight are what you miss most about how things were.

 

Nights like tonight are slowly becoming more regular.

 

\---

 

**BELLAMY**

 

Pulling into the parking lot of the closest Mexican restaurant that you could find, one of Clarke’s few pregnancy cravings, you shifted the truck into park and sprinting to the other side to help Clarke out of the vehicle. It’s amazing how much her stomach has grown during this pregnancy while the rest of her pretty much stayed the same. Honestly, it was like she had swallowed a bowling ball that was now sitting on top of her small intestine. But no way that you could word it would make it sound like you meant to…

 

Especially not to Clarke.

 

Not after all she had been through...

 

Not after this battle that she had seen...

 

Never could you produce words in a way that would accurately articulate the phrase ‘pregnancy looks great on you’-- at least not in a way that she would ever understand.

 

With her arm interlocked in yours, you made your way through the doorway, holding the door open for her and following closely behind you as the host asked if you were “dining for two today,” before chuckling and adding “or should I say three?” Clarke’s laugh sounded sincere until the man turned around to lead you on and she rolled her eyes up at you, making you snort a small laugh in return, quickly hiding it behind your hand.

 

“Heard that before?” you whisper to her while the host places the menus on the damp, freshly wiped table and tells you that your server will be with you shortly.

 

“Only every time we ever go out,” the blonde laughs, pulling the menu close to her face as she scans over each item one-by-one.

 

It doesn’t matter though. You know that it doesn’t matter.

 

Clarke Griffin will, without fail, always and forever order the same exact thing.

 

“Chicken Burrito, no sour cream,” she says as the waitress takes your orders. She closes the menu and hands it to the waitress, a smile written across her lips.

 

“What?” you ask her, snorting air through your nose as you hand over your menu after ordering your signature chicken quesadilla with extra guacamole. Brushing a bit of your hair from your eyes, you can’t help but smile as Clarke continues to chuckle under her breath.

 

“She thinks we’re together,” your friend laughs the real laugh that you don’t hear as much as you used to. She laughs a solid, gut-deep laugh that only comes occasionally from the stressed out, over-worked, perfectionist of a nurse and artist that you’ve known for so long.

 

Smiling back, you lift your water to your lips, feeling the cold liquid on your tongue as you listen to her continue to chuckle.

 

She’s killing you right now.

 

Lowering your glass, you smile once as you trace the rings around the table in front of you, creating what little art work you knew how. “Well,” you say, glancing up to meet her eyes again. “You are my husband.”

 

She snorts again just as your waitress stops by the table, taking your water glass and refilling it before leaving, a small smile written across her lips.

 

“Will you stop with that?” Clarke asks, tossing the balled up straw wrapper that she’s been rolling between her fingers at your head. “You’re going to get an internet sensation started or something.”

 

“Ha,” you laugh, catching the ball just as it passes into your reach. “That would require you to have a fandom. Think you’re that popular?” You lift an eyebrow at your friend who chews on her lower lip, pretending to think before kicking you softly under the table.

 

“I’m more popular than you are.”

 

“Well that’s no competition, I’m an asshole.” The words fall from your lips just as you watch Clarke’s expression fall... the perfect entrance into the next topic of conversation...

 

One you knew was bound to come.

 

“Bellamy,” Clarke begins, her head falling to her lap. The tone of her voice and the tears that you can already see forming in the pits of her eyes tell you exactly where this conversation is going to go.

 

“I know,” is all that you can say as your face drops as well. Your eyes trace the stitching in your denim jeans as you listen closely to her breathing. “I know.”

 

“But you hit her,” she lifts her head and you do the same. Your eyes are met with absolute sadness-- the kind that you never thought you could create in Clarke Griffin.

 

“I know,” you repeat again, shifting your eyes down hoping that her stare would move.

 

But it didn’t.

 

The waitress stops by the table with your food, dropping each plate off as you and Clarke do the best that you can to act like everything is alright.

 

“Why?” she asks as soon as you’re alone again and you shrug, unable to produce words. “I want to ask you something.”

 

_You already have._ You want to say this. You want to make jokes and act like everything is fine, but it’s not.

 

It hasn’t been fine for a while now.

 

You haven’t been fine for a while now.

 

Instead, you nod, knowing that you aren’t in any position to say no.

 

“Is there a reason that you stopped therapy?” she asks you, the crack in her voice stabbing you in the chest. “I mean, did something happen?

 

That wasn’t it though.

 

How do you even begin to put into words why you quit therapy again and again?

 

How do you even begin to explain that when everything gets good, you wait for the fall?

 

How do you explain that you’re afraid of being healed?

 

Because that’s what this is coming down to....

 

You’re afraid of being healed.

 

“Bell,” Clarke asks, reaching out and placing a soft, light hand on yours on the table. “You can talk to me.” There’s a moment where you think that words are coming, but nothing leaves your partially open mouth. “Please talk to me,” she begs of you, wrapping her fingers under yours.

 

And that’s all it took.

 

That’s all that it’s ever took.

 

Taking a deep breath, you open your mouth and actually allow words to just flow rather than trying to speak. “I’m scared,” you say, the brutal honesty of that phrase punching you in the gut. “I’m afraid of being healed.” Another punch to your stomach, causing you to wrap your arms around your torso. “When things go good, they fall apart.” An upper-cut to your lower jaw that forces you to bite down on your lip until you taste blood. “So if I break it, then at least I know it’s coming.” The hook punch to the side of your head that knocks you down. The air leaves your chest, forcing you to shudder as you try to tug it back, breathing deeply for the first time since you started this conversation.

 

Laying down her fork, Clarke looks at you with eyes wide, the blue irises reflecting every wave of light around you back in your direction. She moves from her seat, sliding out of the booth and into yours beside you, wrapping an arm around you.

 

“And if you know it’s coming, then you can be prepared when we leave?” she asks, pulling your head into her shoulder. You nod as you inhale deeply, taking in the scent that held you through triumphs and defeats alike.

 

“Because everyone leaves eventually Clarke,” you whisper the truth of the matter, the weight instantly leaving your chest as her hands find their way to your back.

 

Paula appears at the side of your table after a few moments, but departs quickly with a slight “oh,” but not before dropping the check off at the corner.

 

“Think we chased her off?” Clarke asks, taking her wallet from across the table and pulling a few bills from it, tossing them to the center. You nod, wiping your eyes and swallowing down the lump that was forming in your chest, feeling more and more like a child with each breath that you take. “Let’s go,” she says, sliding from the seat and pulling your hand with her.

 

“Where are we going?” Your voice is cracking as she’s reaching for your keys, smiling as she dances around in front of you.

 

“You’ll see.”

 

Clarke Griffin is a work of art.

 

There’s no doubt about that.

 

\---

 

**LEXA**

 

“But I don’t get it,” you explain, a grumble escaping your throat as you turn in your seat behind the bar, scanning the thinning crowd of your little bar scene, taking note of the few remaining patrons that stood within your walls. Turning back to your friend, your eyes meet hers, one of the few traits of hers that remained the same. “Why Arizona?”

 

Harper snorted a small laugh, lifting the glass that you had just poured her to her lips. She lifted one hand to delicately sweep a small red lock of hair behind her ears before lowering the glass back down to the wooden bar top with a small clanking sound. “I had a friend out there,” she said, her half smile lowering. “Sort of fell apart, but it was time.” The last part was added with a lift of her head and an extension of the smile that you longed to see from her tanned face.

 

Her tan complimented the new nose ring hooping from her left nostril and accented the black ink tattoo that barely peaked over the collar of her fitted white button down. Hell, with her burgundy hair, new piercings, and inked up body, you barely recognized the girl.

 

But it was good. She looked good. She looked together and she looked calm.

 

Far more calm than could be said for any of the members of your family who had been living in this city for the past month or two..

 

Clearing her throat, Harper swallows down the remainder of her beer, turning to you quickly and saying “I’m sorry.” Before you could even lift the eyebrow that you were already flexing, the girl began elaborating, placing a hand on yours and wrapping her fingers in yours. “You and Clarke did so much for me and I just ran away. I can’t exactly explain why…”

 

“Harper…”

 

“... but I sort of just lost it for a little while and I couldn’t take it anymore…”

 

“Harper…”

 

“And I should have told everyone. I mean, we’re family…”

 

“Harper!” You practically shout into the silence around you, forcing your voice into the air and causing the two remaining patrons to turn to you. You laugh with a small wave at them before turning back to your prodigal friend. “It’s fine… You needed you. I’m just glad you’re back.” The smile that spread across her cheeks caused you to grin awkwardly, tightening your fingers against hers. “We missed you friend.”

 

She nods, reaching over to grab the beer tap and pouring herself another glass, causing you to laugh and assume control of the hose as she pours the piss colored liquid across your counters. “Want to hear about Arizona?” She asks you once you finally clean her mess and counter her multiple apologies.

 

After your node, she proceeds to tell you about her wild ride, the plane ride next to what she called ‘the walking sack of shit of the human race’ and how she smelled like ‘a $200 bottle of aftershave exploded inside of his luggage’. The trip to Arizona was just as exciting as the time she spent out west according to her epic tale of staying with her friend in the desert, leaving her friend to ‘find herself’ and returning too entirely uncomfortable to continue where she was. Your traveling nomad of a friend then rented a car and made her way back to Oklahoma, stopping at every rest stop and every detour she could until her heart was too heavy to not return.

 

Honestly, it all sounded so nice to you…

 

But that’s because you can’t even remember what days looked like outside of the diner and you can’t recall the feeling of your wife falling asleep in your arms for more than two hours.

 

“And you know,” Harper says, taking another sip of her beer, her voice drawing you back from the rabbit hole of thought that you had somehow fallen into, “She said something to me that sort of made sense right before I left.” Nodding, you ushered her to continue as the last two customers leave, leaving you two to your conversation alone with the shutting of the bell donning door. “She told me to stop being a pain in the ass… and that’s when I realized.... That’s exactly what I’ve been.”

 

Snorting another laugh, you choke on the beer that you had poured yourself and lifted to your lips, the small bubbles filling your throat as you cough, laughing at your friend still. “You’re not a pain in my ass,” you say, lifting a square napkin to your face. “I mean, but you do need to stop being a pain in your own ass, you know?” She nods and smiles back at you, continuing her beer in silence until the thought dawns on you and causes you to interrupt her introspective search. Just as the song shifts from the overhead speakers and the chorus of light drum taps, melodic chorus voices, and a synthetic melody plays, the lyrics singing against the silence of the room around you, you hesitate for a moment, hearing the music in your chest.

 

_Mama take this badge from me. I can't use it anymore. It's getting dark too dark to see. And I'm feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door._

 

“We don’t really have room for you in our house right now,” you admit, the weight in your chest intensifying with each beat of the drum and each breath that you breathe. You’ve never turned anyone away before. This is such a weird feeling.

 

_Mama put my guns in the ground. I can't shoot them anymore. That cold black cloud is comin' around. And I'm feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door_

 

Harper smiles, reaching her hand into her right pocket and pulling out a small silver key, sliding it across the beer covered bar to you. “I need to start over anyway,” she says as you take the key, looking it over once before realizing where it came from.

 

She’s had it all along.

 

_Mama tell me. Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door. Feels like I'm Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door._

 

Holding your hand back out to her, you present her with the metal key she just surrendered, your eyes staring stright into hers as you say “starting over doesn’t mean giving up. You’ll always have a home.” When she reaches her hand into yours with a smile written across her lips, you can’t help but smile back as you add “as long as you don’t mind sharing a couch with a german shepard.”

 

The both of you laugh as she pockets the key, using the same hand to lift her sweat covered glass to her mouth and downing the rest of it quickly, slamming the mug down onto the bar before hopping off of the bar stoop and placing her hands on the corner and pushing off slightly, skipping as she stepped backwards. Her converse covered feet crossed each other as she backed away from you, lifting her fingers to create pointer guns with both hands. “Thanksgiving?” She asks, shooting you with the imaginary guns, the ‘pew pew’ sounds included and all. Nodding, you chuckle back as she turns away, reaching the door before she looks back. “Thanks Lex,” she shouts over the last verse of the song, the intense drum and tambourine almost drowning her out.

 

You smile as the closes behind her, leaving you completely alone in the bar with the last of the song finishing up, coming to a soft conclusion as the music fades, leaving only the words to keep you company..

 

_Feels like I'm Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door._

\---

 

**BELLAMY**

 

After the world’s longest Kroger trip for nothing but eggs and four bags of gummy worms, Clarke continues to drive you through the darkness of your town, turning at different intersections and speeding down the empty highway, switching the radio each time a sad song comes on over the speakers.

“I don’t want that one,” she says every time, pushing the next button and allowing the next song to play for all of fifteen seconds before she clicks next again. Then the violin begins in a song that you’ve heard only a few times before playing from the speakers within the walls of your house.

You’ve heard the edited version that has been worked into pop songs played on the radio, but the original version is much slower, calmer, and more up your alley.

“I love this one,” the blonde driving your says softly, turning the volume knob to the right as Mary Lambert’s voice begins the chorus of She Keeps Me Warm

Smiling, you glance over at your friend, watching as her eyes shift between the road and her rearview mirror before turning to you. “What?” She asks and you just shake your head, turning back towards the darkened road in front of you.

“Just you,” you mumble, pulling a gummy worm from the bag in your lap and popping it into your mouth, biting down on the tasteless device. They’re all supposed to taste like fruit or something like that, but you’ve never been able to tell the difference.

“What about me?” Clarke asks, reaching over to take the bag from your lap. You protest, trying to pull the gummy worms back but fail as she jerks the steering wheel, shifting your weight and causing you to release the bag as she cackles from the driver’s seat.

She always wins.

“It’s just you,” you smile, reaching a hand into the bag that now rests in her lap, taking a few into your hand. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.” The honesty that escaped from your lips made you cringe as Clarke turned her head towards you, a small smile written across her lips.

“Well,” she says after a few more moments. “Good thing you’ll never have to know.” She turns the wheel to the right, her blinker beginning after she’s already merged over one lane and continuing to accompany you into the shoulder. “We’re here,” she adds, shifting the truck into part and turning the key, all lights across the dash extinguishing instantly and leaving you in the dark in the middle of the intersection.

“Where are we?” you ask before it hits you of exactly where you are.

You’ve been here before.

You’ve stopped here before.

You’ve seen Clarke’s car smashed into pieces here before.

You’ve vomited across this same shoulder before.

You’ve trembled as you’ve driven through here a million times since that day.

And now, you’re here again.

Taking a breath, your head turns from the intersection ahead of you to face Clarke who is watching you with eyes wide and hand outstretched towards you, a single egg resting in her grasp. “I’m not going anywhere,” she says, shoving the egg closer to you. “And you really have to get over this idea that I am.”

When you take the egg, she grabs the carton, exiting the car as you do the same. Walking in front of the car, she closes the distance between her and the intersection with the blue stryofoam carton in hand before she reaches inside, withdrawing an egg and tossing it as hard as she can into the center, turning towards you with a smile written across her lips.

“Let’s go. It’s time to get over this angst that you have. Today, eggs. Tomorrow, therapy. Deal?”

Pulling your hand back over your head, you shout as loud as you can, throwing the egg at the intersection and instantly feeling better the minute it cracks across the pavement. Reaching into the box, you take another egg before looking back to your friend holding it.

“Only if you come with,” you say, reaching an empty hand out to her. The blonde smiles briefly before offering you a ‘deal’ and slamming her hand into yours, the egg in her grasp cracking inside of your palm, its contents splattering up your arm.

“Oh fuck no,” you laugh as Clarke begins to run away, sprinting as fast as she can into the intersection with you close in tow. “No way Griffin.” Reaching out, you grab her arm, pulling her in tightly and smashing the egg in your hand over her forehead, watching as she cringes and growls at the liquid running down her face.

“Gross!” She screams into the silence around you as you exhale slowly, allowing the air to fill your lungs then exit with ease. Looking up to the sky, you see the same stars that you saw that night when you were surrounded by fire trucks and squad cars attempting to clean up the debris of your friend’s almost demise. They’re the same stars. It’s the same intersection. It’s the same city, but yet everything feels different.

Finally everything feels different.

Everything feels hopeful.

\---

**LEXA**

 

Sliding your legs under you on the couch, you listen as the latch to your front door unlocks, the sounds of your wife’s giggles and your roommate’s deep laughs filling the quiet air around you. The soft music playing in the background is quickly masked by their jokes as they push past each other into the doorway to the living room. Folding your book closed, you twirl the wine in your right hand gently, smiling back at them as they both post up on either side of the doorway.

 

“Have fun?” You ask with a laugh, leaning towards the table in front of you to lay your glass on a coaster before turning back to them, hugging your knees tightly. Their faces are streaked with dirt and their hair matted with god only knows what and they both open their mouths to speak at the same time, stumbling over each other like children.

 

Honestly, it’s cute. You’ve missed this interaction. You’ve missed watching Clarke and Bellamy at their prime. You’ve missed the way things were before your friendships got complicated and before you all fell apart. You’ve missed days like that first morning at donuts with Bellamy and Clarke dragging you through art museums. You’ve missed family game nights and half-priced wing nights at the bar and deep conversations with no end game. You’ve missed them stumbling in at late hours after an evening of adventure with the group.

 

Most of all, you’ve missed her. You’ve missed her laugh. You’ve missed her smile. You’ve missed everything about your wife that seemed to get lost in the static of everyday life…

 

And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder if it’s been you that’s lost actually.

 

I mean, how much do you actually try? Like, you try, but how many times does she ask you about your day and you don’t return the question? How many times do you kiss her goodnight without pulling her just a little tighter? How many times do you get lost in the routine of get up, work, come home, work, bed, repeat, and leave Clarke by the wayside?

 

How much of her lack of laughter is due to you?

 

And with all of these questions running through your head, you reach out, taking her hand as she passes, leaving you a small kiss on your forehead as she pulls from your grasp, heading towards the bedroom. Bellamy follows, patting you on the shoulder with an open hand and a slight “missed you tonight”.

 

You nod, reaching forward for you wine once more. With the smell of cinnamon from the candle on the table and the book and glass in your hand, you should be content, but you’re not. Snorting a small laugh, you down the rest of your drink, the bite on your tongue still as you slide down the hallway towards your bedroom, dragging your sock covered feet against the sound of the showers in the other rooms. Opening the door to your bathroom, you slip into the steam filled room, feeling the temperature change on your skin as the tiny beads of condensation already start forming on your arms. Sliding out of your clothes quickly, you duck behind the curtain, taking your wife in your arms the minute that your feet touch down on the porcelain below.

 

“Have fun tonight?” You ask again, tucking your chin into the crook of her neck and kissing her jawline as she pulls your arms tighter around her chest. She smiles, turning into your grasp and pushing her body against yours. Your feet stumble momentarily before you catch yourself again, holding tighter around her while she wraps her arms around your waist, kissing you deeply. Smiling into her kiss, you turn your own body, gently pushing her against the wall. When her skin makes contact with the tile behind her, you instantly feel the ripples spread across her arms and sides, a shiver escaping her body with each goosebump. “I’ll take that as a yes then?” You laugh, kissing her again as her hands reach up for yours.

 

Her fingers interlock with yours for a moment as she kisses you back, her tongue filling your mouth as she sighs into your breath. “Shut up and fuck me,” Clarke orders, pulling your right hand down her body. Your fingertips paint through the streaks of water running down her stomach, each bead parting for your skin as if you controlled the seas.

 

It doesn’t take long for Clarke’s moans to fill silence in the room and with each curl of your fingers inside her, she digs her nails deeper into your shoulder. It was kind of nice at first-- an aggressive side that wasn’t completely out of the norm, but wasn’t exactly standard these days-- but now, with the pounding of the water from the showerhead spreading across your neck and shoulders, it was beginning to burn. But she was begging you, each word accompanied with a gasp, to continue, and with each stroke of your fingers she grew louder until her final gasp where she practically screamed in your ear, biting down on your neck to muffle her own noise. The small laugh that escaped your lips joined with her giggles as she pulled you close leaning on you as her breathing attemped to steady itself.

 

“Jesus Christ,” the blonde sighs, lifting her head to smile at you. The hand on your shoulder moves to your neck as her other hand takes a similar stance, holding the other side of your face, her thumb stroking circles on your jaw. “I’ve missed you.”

 

You open your mouth to speak, but the pounding from the otherside of the wall interrupts you, Bellamy’s muffled shouts bringing a smile to both of your faces. “I swear to god if you don’t let me sleep….” His threat remains unfinished as you both laugh, meeting in the middle with a small kiss.

 

“I’ve missed you,” you finally reply once you’ve broke from her lips, your tongue dancing across your own lips, already missing the feeling of her against you. Lifting your eyes to meet hers, you can’t stop the smile spreading across your face.

 

Jesus Christ…. This is mine…

 

The oceans of her eyes put the small beads of water balancing on her eyelashes to shame. She smiles slightly from the corner of her lips, mouthing a small “what?” But you can’t even bring yourself to answer. Instead, you just shake your head, kissing her again.

 

Suddenly, the steady flow of the shower around you fails, the small stream now trickling cold from the shower head above. Dancing out of its path, both you and Clarke laugh as she groans, “and now he’s flushing the toilet.”

 

“I guess it’s time to get out,” you say with a smile, reaching a hand for the shower curtain before Clarke pulls you back in, pushing your body against the tile wall. Suddenly you understand the way in which her body reacted. Suddenly you understand the climate change between the steam filled room and the ice cold tundra that was invading your skin.

 

With the most determined face you had ever seen on the woman, Clarke spoke four words, keeping you in the shower before she kissed you passionately, her fingertips dancing across your skin.

 

“But it’s your turn.”

 

\---

 

**BELLAMY**

 

**Little Sister (4:46AM):** Oh my god are they still in there?

 

You can’t help but snort a small laugh as you exit the hallway bathroom, feeling accomplished as you type out a response to Octavia.

 

**Bellamy (4:47AM):** Yup. Flushing Toilets.

 

Taking a seat on the corner of the bed that has now become yours, you look at the room around you, waiting for the buzz to draw you out. Honestly, the 4 walls and ceiling keeping you from the outside world has become yours. This was never supposed to be permanent, but after 26 days, nothing has changed and you’re actually alright with it.

 

Well, that’s not entirely true. Some things have changed. On day 8, you tried to run away in your sleep, punching Lexa in the face when she followed you. On day 14, you unpacked a single box, sliding some shoes under your bed and filling the corner of your dresser with purple and black snapbacks. On day 19, you folded your laundry out of your bag, finding the dresser drawers packed with T-shirts and boxer shorts. On day 22, you awoke in a cold sweat in the middle of the hallway with Lexa’s hand holding you against the wall by your shoulder. She was injury free. On day 24, you awoke and opened the closet door to find all of your clothes neatly hanging and color coordinated and your shower supplies fighting for dominance against Roma’s in the bathroom. On day 25, you got out of bed 5 minutes too late and growled at your roommates as they hogged the bathroom, making jokes about women taking too long as you made breakfast for the ladies that shared this house with you. And now, 26 days and 2 nightmares later, you're finally starting to feel at peace. In fact, you haven’t felt this calm in years.

 

Kicking your shoes off, you drag your sock covered feet across the carpet, shaking your still damp hair out before throwing your body down on the bed, you face still pointed to the ceiling when your phone vibrates again.

 

**Little Sister (4:53AM):** You’re such an asshole. How did I not kill you off when we were younger?

 

**Bellamy (4:54AM):** You needed me.

 

**Little Sister (4:54AM):** Not much has changed.

 

Smiling, you toss your phone beside you, hearing the water shut off from the shower on the other side of the wall behind your head. A small chuckle leaves your lips when you think back to the first time that you met Lexa-- Clarke dragging her through your apartment hallway while she drunkenly slurred conversations with you, tossing things at you and making a miserable mess of the apartment in the process. Your chuckle grew to laughter when you continued to think about that day, walking into the kitchen to find Lexa wrapped only in a bed sheet stumbling through your fridge as Clarke heaved in the next room.

 

**Bellamy (4:59AM):** I love that things haven’t changed

**Bellamy (4:59AM):** not really at least.

 

Your screen goes black as you hold it above your head, your feet still dangling over the side of the bed until you pull them in, sliding your body under the blankets. It’s still black when you reach for the book beside your bed, The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. It’s not like you haven’t read this book at least 4 times before. No, in fact, the last time you left highlighter marks across these pages was the day that Lexa showed up at your apartment in a drunken stupor after Clarke left. The last time you underlined quotes and left dorito stained fingerprints across these pages was a completely different time…

 

And you were a completely different you.

 

Opening to the dogeared page, you begin reading, listening to the silence around you as your words fill the air around your head. “The mystery of human existence…”

 

A buzz from your phone interrupts your reading, forcing your book down onto your bed as your hands reach for your phone, your heart sinking as you read the message in your sister’s voice.

 

**Little Sister (5:16AM):** everything has changed Bell.

 

Sighing, you can’t find it in you to reply. Instead, you allow the phone to drop beside you as you reclaim your book, finishing the line that you started. “The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.”

 

Sighing, you close the book, bringing your hands to your face and rubbing them across your cheeks, exhaling slowly. “The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.”

\---

**OCTAVIA**

 

Tossing your phone down beside you, you lift your hands to your face, rubbing the dry calloused skin across your closed eyelids, feeling each crack across your palms as they scrape your way through your face. Pulling them down your cheeks, your nails find your jawline and drag down your neck until they reach the collar of your oversized shirt that somehow found its way out of Lincoln’s almost empty drawer and onto your body for almost the 60th night in a row. Sure, it’s been washed, but your laundry has been minimal to say the least.

 

I mean, when things are washed, they stop smelling like him.

 

Just like the bed sheets.

 

Just like his hoodies.

 

Just like the shower in the mornings when you wake up, what would be just an hour or so after he got home from night shift. Just like the sofa when you throw yourself down after work what would be just an hour or so after he awoke from a nap with your son on his chest. Just like the jackets that you wrap yourself in and the blankets that you pull over your body as you cry and the towels that still lay in the bathroom floor because you still haven’t brought yourself to wash them after he used them the two days before he left.

 

No, it’s been 52 days since your husband was admitted into rehab and you haven’t adjusted to the fact that everything’s changed.

 

No, it’s been 52 days since your husband was admitted into rehab and no one else around you realizes that everything is different.

 

No, it’s been 52 days since your husband was admitted into rehab and everyone is forgetting that your life has fallen to shit.

 

No, it’s been 52 days and…

 

The soft sputters from the baby monitor cause you to open your eyes, listening to the hiccups that preface the cries that Myles sends your way. It’s about that time. 5:30am every day. If nothing else, he was consistent….

 

Just like his father.

 

Hell, he was exactly like Lincoln. You didn’t even think it was possible for a 9 month old to be exactly like a 30 year old, but he is. His reasoning skills are developing. He’s playing and crawling and using everything in sight to pull himself to his feet. He’s causing trouble and breaking everything he touches. He call tell you the sounds of farm animals and will crawl to the ball when you ask for it. He’s smart… smarter than he should be….

 

But maybe you’re biased.

When the small sounds continue, you throw your legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold wood floor under your feet as you hesitate, your body bent into an L shape as gravity pulls you from on top of the sheets.

 

When did you become so stagnant?

 

Another cry.

 

“I’m coming,” you grumble into the air, allowing your core to pull you to your feet as you battled against gravity and depression, each anchoring you to your sheets while your son continues to yell in the next room.

 

The minute you push through the door into the nursery, the crying stops as your son pulls himself to his feet in his crib, the Lion King sheets surrounding him in a blanket cocoon as he smirks at you. “Attention whore,” you laugh, pulling our little burrito child into your arms, holding him close to your chest as he wraps his small fingers around a lock of your hair, his light brown eyes staring at you. “You are your father’s child…”

 

A smile spreads across Myles’ face as he giggles into the room around you, tugging at your hair a little bit. You know it’s just a reaction. You know he doesn’t know what you said, but something in you wants to. Something in you wants to hold on to that hope.

 

Something in you also hopes that you’re wrong.

 

“That’s what scares me,” you say to your son, your voice cracking when his head meets your neck, pushing against your throat. “You are your father’s son.”

 

Making you way back into your bedroom, you pull the swaddled boy closer to your chest, laying on the bed and sighing deeply. He rides the wave of your chest, his head against you as you continue to heave, fighting back the tears that are building inside of you. Your last words to Bellamy repeat in your head until they’re spoken through your lips, the sound of your own voice surprising you.

 

“Everything has changed,” you say again and again, listening to the steady open mouth breathing of your son on top of you. “Everything has changed.” Your phone vibrates just as the first tear manages to escape, fleeing down your cheek. “Everything has changed.”

 

Reaching for your phone with one hand, your left hand finds your son’s back, his breathing a steady pulse against your heaving chest.

 

**BrotherBell (5:47AM)** : The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.

 

Of course he sent you a book quote. Just as frequently as you changed his name in your phone, he changed books, texting you quotes and passages that seemed vaguely applicable to one of your lives.

 

Of course he sent you a book quote. It’s what your brother did. It’s what your brother does.

 

**Octavia Blake (5:52AM):** Who is it this time? C.S Lewis?

 

You laugh at your attempts to swipe with one hand, your thumb hitting every button along the way and causing you to spend entirely too long retyping the author’s name. He probably thought you were writing your own novel of the century while he waited for the three little dots to disappear. Allowing your hand to fall to the bed, your phone still in your palm, you take a deep breath, shuddering out the air with each molecule catching in your throat.

 

Opening a new text, you freeze while Myles readjusts, licking his lips and sighing before stilling again. Swiping your thumb across the screen, you groan as you lift your left hand from his back, giving up and creating a tunnel over his body with your arms to use both hands.

 

**Octavia Blake (6:03AM):** Hey Baby Carli Lloyd

 

There’s no answer. There hasn’t been for the last two and a half months when you texted her. There wasn’t when you confessed that you didn’t think that you’d miss her this much. There wasn’t when you told her that you didn’t know what to do without your sister here to spoil Myles. There wasn’t when you told her that you were scared that Clarke was going to lose her battles or that you were tired of fighting your brother or when you told her that Roma moved in with Clarke and Lexa and how you thought this was great for her. There wasn’t a reply when you asked her what Lexa’s favorite ice cream was and when you told her that she was missed at Lexa’s birthday. There hasn’t been a reply for two and a half months, but still you text the child who you welcomed in after watching her almost beat a girl into the ground during her senior year of college.

 

There hasn’t been a reply for two and a half months, but still you text Tris as if she’s going to answer from the other end.

 

Staring at your phone, you wait for a vibrate with a sigh, just like you always do, but getting nothing but silence in return. Silence and broken wishes.

 

When your phone did finally vibrate, you knew it wasn’t her, but the jump in your heart wished otherwise. You always wished otherwise.

 

**BrotherBell (6:09AM):** Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

 

**BrotherBell (6:10AM):** He also said “To love someone means to see him as God intended him.” Remember that. OK?

 

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes again, your arm dropping beside you as the largest tremble exits your body, causing all of you to shake. Of course loving someone means seeing the brokenness of man. Of course loving someone means being drunk on the idea that love can heal your brokenness. Of course Bellamy told you that months ago. And of course you hadn’t forgotten it.

 

**Octavia Blake (6:13AM):** And in the end, we were all just humans.. drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness

 

Sighing, you watch as your phone illuminates one last time with one final message. Laying it down beside you, you sigh, closing your eyes and feeling the rush of relief over you as your son sighs against you, breathing slowly and steadily.

 

**BrotherBell (6:14AM):** Goodnight Little Sister.

 

\---

**BELLAMY**

 

Why wouldn’t she remember that?

 

Closing your eyes, you lock your phone after swiping your three word response, exhaling slowly as her text reminds you of the sticky note you left in that hoodie, knowing that Harper would take it with her when she left.

 

“And in the end, we were all just humans.. drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness…”

 

\---

**HARPER**

 

“I can’t believe you know Lexa Woods,” Echo mumbles to you as you continue to unpack the same bag that you’ve had in the corner of the empty apartment bedroom for a week now. You simply nod, shrugging your shoulders once quickly as she continues to speak. Her words disappear into the airwaves, your own thoughts drowning out her voice as she dissipates into nothing but static. “I mean, small world. How is she?” Honestly, you can’t answer that question.

 

She looked well…. I mean, well enough. Especially saying the last time you saw her was when….

 

Swallowing deeply, you offer a small “good,” not even knowing if that was the right answer or not. The blonde continues to walk around the room, speaking into the silence that is only broken by the faint sound of your laptop in the corner singing out some melodic mix that was probably created by Bellamy. Honestly, you barely had any music of your own that wasn’t his.

 

And even if it wasn’t, it soon became his. Everything came back to him.

 

“Last time I saw her she had a stick shoved up her ass and was too preoccupied by everything else to enjoy life,” your… whatever the fuck she is… laughs, tossing her body on the bed, kicking her shoes off before drawing her knees into her chest. “She still an asshole?”

 

“What?” you ask, finally listening to the words as they leave her chapped lips. With your face scrunched up and the irritation practically radiating from your cheeks, you ball the shirt up in your hands, feeling each thread of fabric as it tightens in your fist.

 

“I mean, she was a total fuckbag to my bud Costia, so I was just…”

 

“Get out.”

 

You’re not one for interrupting people. Hell, you’re not one for confrontation, but you aren’t the same person you were.

 

You’ll never be that person again.

 

“What?” Echo snorts, drawing her body up as she throws her legs back over the corner of the red and blue fitted bed.

 

“I’m not doing this anymore,” is all you can muster as the soft guitar strums in the background, a new song welcoming in your new confrontation. Your fingers release the shirt in your hands, it falling to the floor in a balled mass at your feet.

 

Echo’s blank stare meets your eyes and you can feel your eyebrows relax on your forehead. “What do you mean?” she laughs in between breaths. “It sounds like you’re breaking up with me.” You watch silently as the corner of her lips drop with each second that passes until she pushes herself from the bed. “Whatever man.”

 

When she shrugs past you, you listen to each step she takes, counting them as she makes her way through the small apartment and out the door.

 

1.

 

_You knew she was toxic. Hell, you knew she had a past. You knew she was connected and you knew she was bad, but she was warm._

 

2.

 

_You knew what this would look like. You knew what this was. You knew what kind of questions would come up, but you didn’t care._

 

3.

 

_You knew that it wouldn’t last. You were okay with that. But you also knew that you didn’t want to be alone._

 

4.

 

_“So you have kissed a girl before,” she laughed at you, the red tip of her cigarette illuminating in the darkness of the seedy dive bar that you sought refuge in._

 

5.

 

_Nodding, you reached out, taking the death stick from her lips and placing it to your own, inhaling deeply before passing it back to her. It’s not like you didn’t have a girlfriend before Bellamy._

 

6.

 

_Or a boyfriend before her._

 

7.

 

_Or the girlfriend before him._

 

8.

 

_It’s not like Clarke was the only one of your family who did whatever the fuck they wanted._

 

9.

 

_But it was that smile. It’s was the little things. It was her fingertips across your shoulder and her breath on your neck._

 

10.

 

_But you knew it wouldn’t last. And you were okay with that. You just wanted to stay warm._

 

11.

 

_Afterall, she was toxic._

 

12.

 

_But so were you._

 

When the door to your apartment finally slammed shut, you allowed your shoulders to drop, a large breath fleeing your body through every pore as your jaw lowered and air exited your lungs. Falling onto the crinkled bed, you reach your fingers out, grasping the pillow and moving it on top of your face down head, pulling it tightly around your ears just as the bridge of the song releases into the air, all of the emotion in Noah Gundersen’s voice screaming out to you through the pillow between you two.

 

Groaning, you reach out, slamming your laptop shut with your right hand, instantly stopping the noise but leaving the last line lingering in the air.

 

_This will be the last time._

 

God, how many times have you heard this song? Reaching that same hand over your head, you pull the pillow away and tug the hood of the dark blue sweatshirt over your head before rolling over onto your back, your hands guarding your eyes from the invasive lights above.

 

“It’s the first defeat,” you begin, the song lyrics leaving your mouth in broken shutters. “It cuts you to your bones. I knocks you off your feet.” Taking a breath, you suck the air into your chest as the tears begin swelling up in the pits of your eyes, causing a kaleidoscope of colors against the ceiling.  “And you discover that home. It’s not a person or a place, but a feeling you can't get back.” The reality of that first verse alone is enough to draw the tears out, streaking them down your face as they paint the pain inside your chest across your skin.

 

He was the first defeat.

 

“Then the second round throws you to the floor.” Your voice whines now, each sound coming out more broken than the syllable before. Your once raspy, catch is now long and drawn, drowning in the sounds of your chest heaving back and forth. “It leaves you stuttering, What the hell was that for?” With every breath, you tremble a little more until your hands are shaking, lifting to your forehead and dragging down your face, taking the tears with them. “Takes you by surprise  
Like the bullet you never saw coming.”

 

She was the second round.

 

It wasn’t as strong. It wasn’t as intense. But it still left you lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, repeating the same song that you just violently silenced from your computer. Reaching a hand over, you throw the screen back open, the noise immediately greeting you like Noah Gundersen had been waiting for you this whole time.

“Oh, you're kissing me again,” you sing with him, your voice dragging behind as you struggle to breathe through the drowning in your lungs. “Oh, and I can't see it. You've got a lot of nerve.” Taking another breath, you speed the next line in order to catch up with the beat of the song. “Throw me out the way you did. You've got a lot of nerve Half-naked in my bed you said.”

 

With the small pause in the song, you take a breath, not wanting to repeat the next words. You’ve heard them before and you know what they mean, and you know that if you say them outloud…

 

If you say them outloud, they become real.

 

“This will be the last time,” you finally chime in, choking through each word. “This will be the last time you take me.”

 

Swallowing down the lump in your chest, you take a single breath, finally feeling mildly free again. As your eyes close and your hands find their way into the pocket at your stomach, you hear Bellamy’s voice repeat the words written across the tattered note card, your fingers tracing the corners as he speaks in your brain.

 

“And in the end, we were all just humans.. drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.”

 

\---

 

**BELLAMY**

 

The airport is your thing. The airport has always been your thing. You and Raven don’t always get along, but no matter what kind of argument the two of you have left unresolved or whatever political debate has been festering since the last misguided facebook post, you’d never let anyone else pick her up from the airport. That’s always been your thing.

 

And that hasn’t changed.

 

In spite of everything, that hasn’t changed, and the minute that your eyes meet those dark brown almond shaped eyes of hers, you can’t fight the smile any longer. Reaching out to her, you wrap your arms around your friend as she stumbles into your grasp, her backpack falling beside your feet as you hold her close.

 

“It’s been some kind of a year,” she whispers to you, inhaling deeply as you bury your face into her shoulder. The words come out almost as a question as you nod, unable to even produce an answer.

 

“It’s been a hell of a year,” you respond finally, releasing your friend and keeping her at arm's length as you glance her over. Not a damn thing has changed about her. Somehow, even with still being stuck behind a desk and going through a brutal break-up an ocean away from her family and friends, Raven has managed to stay exactly the same-- even if you haven’t.

 

“You look like shit,” the brunette reminds you with a smirk, running her hands through your matted hair. Shrugging from the left side of your body, you purse your lips, reaching down to grab her backpack and tossing it over your shoulder as you turn towards the exit.

 

“You’re not much better,” you lie, bracing your shoulder for the punch that follows soon after. There’s always a punch that follows soon after. “No, I’m glad you’re here,” your arm wraps around her shoulder, holding tight to her left arm from across her back. “Everyone misses you.”

 

She sighs gently, turning her head into your shoulder as if she’s hugging you while the two of you walk. “I miss home.” Smiling, you catch the words as she says them.

 

Home.

 

This is still home for her.

 

Once inside your truck, you turn the radio on, plugging your phone into the aux cable and pushing play without even thinking about it. The small guitar progression that begins causes your heart to stop momentarily as you take the first left out of the parking lot, merging immediately into traffic. Reaching a hand out to switch the song, Raven’s caramel colored hand finds yours stopping you before you reach the next button. “Leave it,” she almost begs as Matt Nathanson joins your car ride, the first verse cutting deeper than you even thought possible.

 

_Somewhere in between the beginning and the end September took the tourists and settled in for good. We could hear the trains again, Brooklyn girls in scarves. Summer left and no one said a word_.

 

Jesus fucking Christ. This damn song. You’ve avoided this song since September. Hell, you’ve avoided this song since you bought the Some Mad Hope album. You’ve avoided this song since you started listening to Matt Nathanson. You’ve avoided this song since you heard it the first time…

 

And since you heard it again right after she left…

 

_We'd open your window, Stay in your bed all day 'til the street lights came on. So, what happened to bulletproof weeks in your arms? What happened to feeling cheap radio songs? What happened to thinking that the world was flat? Yeah, what happened—_

 

“It’s all changed,” Raven begins, taking a deep breath before adding the conclusion of “hasn’t it” to the end of her phrase. The question catches you off guard just as the second verse begins, tearing away at everything inside of you.

 

How do you answer that question?

 

Yes, it has changed.

 

But no, you don’t want to admit it.

 

Lincoln’s not around.

 

Tris is…

 

You still can’t say it…

 

Harper is still….

 

Whatever the hell that has happened to one of you has happened to all of you and nothing is the same.

 

So yes, everything has changed, but do you honestly need to tell her that?

 

_So up on 59th street, Right before the rains. Lovers catching taxis going downtown. I'm talking to what's left of you. I'm watching what I say, counting all the freckles on your perfect face_.

 

Instead of offering an answer as you take a right, turning onto the next highway without coming to a complete stop at the sign in front of you, you nod with a small exhale, glancing over at Raven. She just nods back, clenching her jaw tightly before turning the volume up on the radio in front of you.

 

_You open your window and sit on your bed just waiting for right words to come. So, what happened to bulletproof weeks in your arms? What happened to feeling cheap radio songs? What happened to thinking that the world was flat? What happened— Yeah, what happened to that?_

 

“He had to go,” she answers the question on your tongue, turning her head towards you while she speaks. You glance over before turning your eyes back to the road. “He was toxic for a long time and I just couldn’t do it any more.” Sniffing back whatever emotion she was battling, Raven tugs her sleeves over her hands before directing her attention back to you. “And Harper?”

 

Of course she knew. I mean, she knew about everything else that had happened between everyone else in your family, but of course she knew about Harper.

 

_So, what happened to bulletproof weeks in your arms? What happened to feeling cheap radio songs? What happened to thinking that the world was flat? What happened— Yeah, what happened to that?_

“I fucked up,” you finally reply as the radio goes into silence, your hands turning the wheel into the paved driveway that still held you and Lexa’s initials in the corner. Shifting the truck into park, you turn your head to your friend, smiling from the corner of your lips at her, forcing the grin in spite of the heavy intensity of the air around you. “I’m glad you’re home.”

 

“Me too,” she smiles back before wrapping her arms around your shoulders, pulling you in for a hug. “Even if you’ve stolen my bedroom.”

 

You snort a small chuckle as she releases you, pulling your keys from the ignition. “You can always cuddle with me,” you joke as she reaches out, ruffling the hair that’s falling from the top of your head over your ears.

 

“Damn straight I will.”

 

\---

 

**LEXA**

 

Today is the day.

 

Today is the day and no one else knows.

 

Today is the day that you’ve been planning for four days now, and no one else knows and you can hardly contain yourself.

 

It began four days ago with a phone call that you almost didn’t answer.from a 405 number that you didn’t recognize. The voice on the other end, however, was familiar, even if distant.

 

_“Lexa,” Lincoln spoke, a smile instantly spreading across your cheeks as soon as your brother spoke your name. “I’m ready to come home.”_

 

You didn’t believe him at first. In fact, you traveled through the entire cycle of the stages of grief, reliving every moment of negativity from the last 3 months all at once, but when he said your name again, all doubt disappeared. You no longer heard darkness. You no longer heard sadness. You no longer heard the pain of addiction and the anger and rage that had existed in your brother for years. You no longer heard the exhaustion of someone who was fighting a war. No, you heard your little brother, 14 years old and pitching a softball with you and your father in the front lawn. No, you heard your little brother, 24 years old and teaching a group of 4 year olds how to kick and punch with the intensity of an olympic martial arts team. No, you heard your little brother as he spoke his vows to the love of his life and held your hand as you waited for Clarke to arrive at the museum and cheered on your littler sister as she scored a game winning goal. You no longer heard the darkness that you almost allowed to control him. Instead, you heard Lincoln, the prodigal brother begging for forgiveness.

 

And now he was here, and you were the only one who knew.

 

Standing in front of the man, you watch him as she shuffles papers across the kitchen counter, chewing on his lip as he continues to lose himself in his thoughts. Thousands of What-Ifs had flooded from his lips during the drive back earlier this morning, but now, all were silenced behind the curtain of his eyes as his hands danced across the dark marble that you and Bellamy had installed just a week before.

 

“I’m nervous,” he snorts, his dark eyes turning up to you. You blink once, maintaining the eyecontact that you’ve craved for months now, watching as his eyes shift back and forth between yours. “What?” he asks, a small laugh escaping his almost closed lips.

 

Shaking your head, you close the two steps worth of distance between the two of you, wrapping your arms around his shoulders for the ten thousandth time today. “I’ve missed you,” you mumble for the ten thousandth time as well, burring your face into his shoulder.

 

You can feel his smile spread as he hugs you back, pulling you in tighter. “I’ve missed you,” he replies, resting his chin on your head.

 

For a brief moment, the world stops right there. Nothing else matters, and even through all of the hell that you’ve experienced this year, everything is calm and everything is quiet.

 

And just as you start to pull away, the door to the kitchen opens.

 

\---

 

**BELLAMY**

 

It was one thing to walk into your best friend’s kitchen to find Lincoln standing there waiting for you all. It was another thing entirely to watch your sister look up from the list in her hand to meet eyes with her husband. The smile across your lips was nothing compared to that of your little sister when she dropped the papers, throwing herself into his arms before you could even process her movement.

 

There were tears and laughter and smiles all around during the meal prepping phase and for the first time in months, everything felt stable. Everything felt whole. So when you found yourself sitting outside on the steps of their front porch with a cigarette between your lips, you couldn’t understand or justify the darkness inside you.

 

As the door opened and closed behind you, you wanted to turn around, but your body wouldn’t move. Instead, you remained planted, eyes focused on the blades of grass that were dulling in color just feet ahead of you until the large body planted himself next to you, baby Myles in his arms. Extinguishing your cigarette on the sidewalk below your feet, you turn towards your brother-in-law, the smile on his face dropping as he opens his mouth to speak.

 

“Don’t,” you intercept his words, Lincoln swallowing them deeply as her turns Myles around to face the street in front of you.

 

“Oh I wasn’t,” he lies with a laugh, his voice reminding you of the way things were.

 

He sounded soft and calm, exactly how you remember him before all of it. Before Clarke’s wreck. Before you spiraled. Before you lost her. Before Tris….

 

Tris….

 

Turning your head again to face him, you swivle your body around, crossing your arms over the knees that you’ve pulled into your chest. Your purple button down ruffles under your chin, tickling your neck before you shake it off, meeting eyes with Lincoln. “How are you doing?”  you ask, unable to produce anything except for a cliche question he’s probably heard a thousand times.

 

How do you ask him everything that’s on your mind?

 

How do you ask him how he’s handling missing the death of his little sister?

 

How do you ask him if he’s still feeling the demons inside of him?

 

How do you ask him if he’s still at war with his brain?

 

“I’ve been worse,” he half smiles, his dark eyes glancing up towards the sky. “It’s weird, you know?” You just nod. “I don’t think I ever processed that Tris wouldn’t…” Swallowing deeply, Lincoln pulls his squirming son in closer to his chest, planting his lips against the boy’s head and holding them there while he speaks, using the child to muffle the shudder that you almost miss in his words. “That she wouldn’t be here when I returned.”

 

Biting your lip, you nod again, turning back towards the street and lowering your denim covered legs to the ground in front of you. Reaching your hands towards your feet, your groan as you stretch, grabbing your converse for a split second before sitting back up straight. “I don’t think any of us really processed the truth.”

 

“And what’s your truth?” Lincoln asks, turning the child over in his arms again. Myles was now sitting on Lincoln’s legs, reaching for his own toes as he wobbled back and forth, giggling and sputtering noises that you can only guess are sounds that he’s picked up on through the day.

 

Reaching over, you take your nephew, pulling him into your chest and holding him close. “That everything is changing now.”

Lincoln snorts a breath through his nose, withdrawing his phone and typing something quickly across it before laying it down between you two. “This was Lexa’s favorite song for years,” he says as the guitar and light drum progression begins. You remember this song.

 

You remember every word.

 

A part of you wants to ask him to turn it off. A part of you wants to reach out with your free hand, pressing pause and begging him to not continue. A part of you wants it to end before it can get any worse, but when the first verse starts and Lincoln wraps his arms around his knees and pulls his legs into his chest, closing his eyes as he exhales slowly, you know that you can’t. He needs to hear this song.

 

And even more than that, you need to hear this song.

 

_A little early in spring, a bonfire ring. She's shivering alone. I bumped into you somehow. But you can wear my duct-taped vest. It's a party best. It's really all I own. Everything's changing now._

 

Taking a breath, you wonder exactly how it’s the case that a song like this can mean so much to you in a moment like this? How is it even possible that this song is completely applicable to Lincoln right in this second, and yet can completely speak to your soul at the same time?  
  
_And I am high like a star that's flying- Cassiopeia. Everything's changing now. She said it's alright. She said no don't die alone. There's no goodbyes._

 

How is it that this song can mean everything to the world to you in one conversation about Tris and by the time this chorus starts, you’re back to thinking about Harper?  
  
_Lightning comes and lightning goes and it's all the same to me. Let it in cause I want you so. I can hardly breathe or release into one thousand pieces I have broke into over you. The chain will soon be gone. I keep burning on and on and on._  
  


How is it that when you hear each word of this song, you see every mistake that you’ve ever made laid out in front of you?

__  
If nothing else I am myself. That's all I have to give. Everything's changing now. Oh we could live like kings if we take a risk or we could live in doubt. Everything's changing now.  
  
  


And with each transition, the building pressure in your chest bubbles a little higher until you can’t breathe. With each breath that you suck in, you feel it surfacing, threatening to out you here on this front porch for exactly what you are.  
  
_Lightning comes and lightning goes and it's all the same to me. Let it in cause I want you so. I can hardly breathe or release into one thousand pieces I have broke into over you. The chain will soon be gone. I keep burning on and on and on._  
  
You’re a coward. You always have been.

 

_This, this is, this is the last time, it’s the last time. This, this is, this is your goodbye. This, this is, this is the last time. This, this is, this is your goodbye_

 

And now it was time to face it.   
  
_Some girls will break you down just to see you come undone. Everything's changing now. Maybe you and I are cursed. Maybe you and I are one, and that's the universe around, around she drags you._

 

You couldn’t stop Clarke from leaving that night.  
  
_Lightning comes and lightning goes and it's all the same to me. Let it in cause I want you so. I can hardly breathe or release into one thousand pieces I have broke into over you. The chain will soon be gone. I keep burning on and on and on._

 

You couldn’t save Tris.

_  
Did you get what you wanted?_

 

You couldn’t stop Harper from leaving.

_  
Did you get what you wanted?_

 

You’re broken.

_  
Did you get what you wanted?_

 

And you’re only human.  
  


When the song ends, the silence between you two lingers until a black Kia pulls into the driveway, interrupting you and Lincoln’s moment of quiet introspection. When the door opens, your heart stops briefly as you watch her emerge, dark red hair falling just past her black button down covered shoulders.

 

“Harper,” you say, standing before you even realize it, your nephew still tucked inside your arms. Lincoln stands beside you, smile planted on his cheeks as he pats you on the back, walking past you to meet the woman in her sprint up the walkway.

 

“Let’s go,” a small voice rings behind you, Lexa’s head emerging from the black wooden door. “Dinner’s done assholes.”

 

Taking a deep breath, you turn quickly on your heels, practically sprinting behind the door before Lexa even shuffles from your path. Smiling at you, she places a hand on your shoulder, lifting to her toes to plant a kiss on your still rugged cheek before disappearing back down the hallway.

 

Jesus Christ, this family.

 

\---

 

**CLARKE**

 

You can’t even bring yourself to be upset. You tried. And even after half of the food was burnt, your mother was two hours late, Kane hadn’t shaved for pictures, Myles had thrown up on your black dress, Bellamy had refused to get a haircut, Lexa failed to mention that she invited Harper, and the napkins didn’t match the placemats like you thought, you still couldn’t bring yourself to be upset with how everything turned out when your family all gathered around the table for dinner and conversation and laughter picked up. The minute the first joke was cracked, your sulking attitude fell by the wayside and the mood was instantly lifted.  
  


“I just don’t see what you’re saying,” Murphy laughed, mouth full of food as he pointed his fork at Lincoln across the table. Your brother-in-law held his hands up in surrender, smile spreading as he took a breath, preparing his argument. “There’s no way that they’re going to make it through the bowl game! You’re just relying on faith at this point!”

 

“Okay, now wait….” Lincoln begins, a laugh escaping his lungs as he shakes his head before Lexa interrupts him, slamming her elbow on the table and joining in the conversation.

 

“Do you even hear yourself Murphy?” the brunette beside you shouts across the table, pointing her own fork at the man in retaliation. Murphy chuckles, the rest of the group laughing along. “Literally our only loss of the season so far was Texas and that defeat was fought for.”

 

Lincoln laughed, tagging himself into the argument as he shoved some bread into the corner of his mouth, his chipmunk cheeks causing you to snort a small laugh into the sleeve of your sweater. “And on saturday we’re going to walk through Oklahoma State, so even if we end up going against Clemson, we’ll be going in as number four. Even you can’t deny those odds!”

 

Murphy continued to shake his head, laughing gently as he reached for another roll from the center of the table, tossing it onto his plate as he mumbled. “I’m just saying, you’re going to lose. Don’t get your hopes up.”

 

Smiling to yourself, you slid a hand over your wife’s knee, feeling the tension in her leg as she attempted to continue the argument. Squeezing her leg gently, you called her off, watching her shoulders drop as she offered a small “whatever,” dismissing the argument entirely as Lincoln laughed it off. Small conversation continued briefly among the groups, Raven asking your mother about work, Roma joking with Harper about something she heard on the radio earlier this week, Kane and Monty talking with Bellamy about how things at the hospital have been going. Maya and Jasper whispered to each other before Maya laughed, shoving him with her shoulder from beside him. Lincoln continued to hassle Murphy about sports, choosing less heated conversation points than the Sooners. It was normal…

 

Well, almost normal.

 

In spite of all of it, though, you could still feel the tension being held tight between Bellamy and Harper who somehow ended up sitting across from each other. It would have been easy to move them, but that would have drawn attention to your discomfort, and right now, with a baby performing circus acts on your bladder and a foot shoved between your left ribs, you really didn’t need any more awkwardness or discomfort.

 

“You okay?” Lexa asks, moving a hand over yours that’s still on her knee. She intertwines her fingers into yours, pulling your hand to her lips and kissing you knuckles. Blinking a few times, you nod, turning to face her with a smile. She glances you over before he lips crack into a smile. Biting down on her lower lip, she leans in, planting a small kiss on yours before something small and hard hits you in the face.

 

“Get a room homos,” Raven laughs, her had still exended in the direction of the traveling bread roll. The laughter around the room intensifies as others offer some sort of salty comment.

 

“Please god no, we’ll still hear them!” Bellamy groans, his head falling into his hands. Again, more laughter fills the air as your face fills with heat. You glance over at Lexa who is blushing under her freckles, the contrast building in her cheeks as she smiles at her best friend, reaching a foot out to kick him under the table.

 

“I’m going to act like I’m not hearing this,” Kane jokes almost too quiet to hear. Your mother laughs, shaking her head as her eyes fall to the table before looking back to you. You mouth a small ‘I’m sorry’ before she shakes her head again, smiling towards you.

 

Honestly, this is what you expected dinner to be like-- Well almost.

 

Raven rises to her feet beside you, lifting her glass of water saying “alright fuckers, It’s time for a toast.” The group around you collectively groans before laughing it off, your brunette friend smiling in reply. “I know, I know, but you assholes have had a hell of a year.” And with that, silence falls over everyone and you swear you can hear one collective breath as Raven continues. “For real, this year has been shit, for all of us.” Lincoln clenches his jaw as he reaches a hand over to Octavia’s leg under the table, her eyes falling to her lap. “Honestly, I’m not sure what god one of us managed to piss off,” a small group chuckle begins before silence takes over yet again. “But look at us. We made it.” Lowering her glass, you watch as she swallows deeply, tracing rings around the lip of her glass with her index finger as she speaks slowly. “So here’s to survival-- because life is about something more.” Lincoln is the first to lift his glass, Monty and Jasper joining soon after. You can feel the air leaving Lexa’s lungs as she reaches for her glass, her hand shaking before she wraps her fingers around it and lifting it to the group.

 

“To something more,” she says, forcing a smile from the corner of her lips as everyone lowers their drinks.

 

It’s another couple of seconds before conversation begins again, Jasper asking Raven if she’s gotten to blow anything up recently, Monty joining in the overeager conversation quickly before Octavia harassed them, joking about their pryromanical tendencies.

 

Lexa turns to you, her lips moving and noise coming from her mouth, but you can’t hear a single word she’s saying. Instead, your eyes are fixated on Bellamy and Harper. They haven’t stopped watching each other since they lowered their glasses and whatever conversation they were having with their eyes was louder than anything happening around you.

 

“You okay?” Lexa asks, drawing you back to your own conversation at hand. Focusing in on your wife, you turn back towards her, losing yourself in her gold speckeled brown eyes.

 

“Yeah,” you laugh, reaching a hand up and cupping her cheek as you lean in, kissing her softly. “I’m sorry. I got distracted.”Harper rises from her chair, her shoulders dropped low as she slides through the door to the hallway almost unnoticed, Bellamy following close behind.

 

Lexa leans in to you once more, kissing you deeply as her hand find your belly, holding you closely. “I love you,” she whipsers as her forehead leans on yours, her eyes closed. Closing your own eyes, you breathe in deeply, feeling the baby inside of you kick against her hand

 

\---

**BELLAMY**

 

You slip out through the door, following closely as Harper makes her exit quickly. She walks to her car, her head down low as she withdraws her keys, clicking the button and slamming the door behind her before you can even make it to the passenger side. Throwing the door open quickly just as she shifts the car into reverse, you dive in, pushing the gear shift back into park and looking her straight in the face.

 

“Don’t talk,” you say as you pull your phone from your pocket, plugging it into the blue aux cable that you remember buying for the now red head. “Just listen, okay?” She nods as you push play, a single guitar strum ringing out against the synthasized ambiance in the background before the woman’s voice begins the first verse.

 

_You are right, I'll move on, but my lungs feel so small. I couldn't breathe if I tried. I lay my head on the floor, my beating heart wanting more. But I'll keep it in and keep you out._  
  
  


Your lips move to the lyrics of the song, but the shuddering in your chest keeps the sound trapped in your ribcage, vibrating against your heart and bones with each syllabyl.

 

_I'm drowning, I'm drowning. I'm drowning, I'm drowning._

 

There’s never been a single line that sums up your life better…

 

Well, that’s not entirely true. You have entire journals filled with book quotes and song lyrics that all maintain some degree of relevance and application in your life, but there is not a single line that sums up this exact moment beter…

 

Except maybe that you’re drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal your brokenness.

 

_But for the longest time I knew there was nothing left for us to do. But I tried, oh, I tried. And in this quiet company there is nothing staring back at me. I'm in need of the sound._

 

Lifting your eyes from the floor that you had been staring at, they trace the lines up Harper’s body. Her thin fingers ringing circles in her lap. Her arms tucked tightly to her side, holding close to her body for protection. Her shoulders raised, guarding her neck and ears as her hair cascades in front of her face, shielding the outside world from the tears that you can already see forming in the pits of her eyes.

 

_Hungry for the kill, but this hunger, it isn't you. Voices disappear when you are speaking, in somber tunes. I will be the wolf and when you're starving, you'll need it too. Hungry for the kill, but this hunger, it isn't you. It isn't you, it isn't_.

 

As the first tear streaks down her cheek, you fight the urge to reach out and hold her. You resist the temptation that is building inside of you to grab her arms and pull her close, breathing in her familiar scent of vanila and camomile. You fight with every fiber of your being, the simplest urge to apologize, and instead, you pull your legs into your chest, tucking your feet onto the corner of the seat as your head finds your knees.

 

_And I'll go talk to fill the void, let me go cause you are just a shade of what I am, not what I'll be. But in this quiet company I forget sometimes just how to breathe. Fill my lungs with the sound._

 

As vague as it is, this song right now is your anthem to her. As sad as it is, this is you letting go. This is you saying, ‘I’m here, and I’m giving up.’ This is you saying ‘If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.’ This is you saying ‘The ball is in your court.’ This is you releasing her.

 

_Hungry for the kill, but this hunger, it isn't you. Voices disappear when you are speaking, in somber tunes. I will be the wolf and when you're starving, you'll need it too. Hungry for the kill, but this hunger, it isn't you. It isn't you, it isn't_.

 

As the breakdown begins and the music takes over without words, you see Harper’s tear streaked face fall deeper into her hands until her fingers are cupped over her eyes entirely. As she rolls into a ball of her own in the driver’s seat, your poster mimics hers, your arms holding close to your legs as you try to take a single breath to keep yourself from drowning.

 

And then you hear it.

 

_I'm drowning, I'm drowning_

 

At first you can’t tell, but you think it’s there.

_  
I'm drowning, I'm drowning_

 

So you listen a bit closer, silencing your own trembles to hear hers.

_  
I'm drowning, I'm drowning_

 

And just when you think you’ve heard her incorrectly, she lifts her head, mumbling with the words of the song, “I'm drowning, I'm drowning.”

 

You swallow deeply, forcing a half smile towards the mascara streaked face in front of you as she lifts the back of her hand to her cheeks, wiping away the trail marks that line her jaw. “Look,” you begin, finally pushing out the air that has been reeking havoc in your chest cavity for the last three minutes. “I just wanted you to know that….”

 

“Shut up,” you commands, grabbing the collar of your shirt and pulling you in, her lips meeting yours quickly as her hands find their way into your hair, gripping tightly at the base of your neck. With her fingers woven into your curls, you kiss her back, lifting a hand to her side and the other to the side of her neck, pulling her in closer as the next song begins to play, filling a silence that you didn’t even notice existed.

 

As she pulls away, you smile as her shuddering laughter, her forehead tucking itself into the crook of your neck. “I miss you,” you whisper, running a hand through her hair as the other holds close to her back. She nods against your shoulder, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly.

 

“I slept with someone,” she pulls away, her hand finding yours. You blink momentarily as you take in another breath, pushing the air through your nose before you close your eyes for a single second.

 

“I don’t care,” you smile, the absolution filling your chest when you open your eyes and she’s still in front of you. “I don’t care about what’s happened. I’m just ready to move forward.”

 

Smiling, a single tear streaks down the right side of her face. You lift your hand, tracing its path back up towards her eye with your thumb. “I love you,” she says as your hand tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear.

 

“I love you,” you reply, pulling her in for another kiss.

 

\---

 

**CLARKE**

**BellBear (7:27pm):** Talking things through with Harps. Don’t wait up for me.

 

Clicking the lock screen on your phone, you can’t help but smile. With Lincoln back home and Harper and Bellamy working things out, Raven talking about moving back state side, and the roar of your friends laughing in the living room one room over, all is as it should be-- or as close as it will ever get again. Rubbing your hand over your belly, you smile a little wider, singing the lyrics to the song playing through your speakers to your unborn baby as you slide plates across the countertop and close tupperware containers.

 

“Need help?” Lincoln asks in the lull between songs, sliding into the kitchen through the empty doorway, causing you to jump.

 

“Jesus,” you laugh, your heart in your throat as you drop a dirty fork into the floor. Shuffling to bend over to pick it up, you attempt to say no before he reaches down, grabbing the fork and extending his hand to your still only half crouched body.

 

“You were saying?” he laughs as you take it from his hand. Glancing him over as the guitar strumming begins, your heart drops a little bit, the song lyrics burning in your ears.

 

White lips, pale face. Breathing in snowflakes. Burnt lungs, sour taste. Light's gone, day's end. Struggling to pay rent. Long nights, strange men.

 

This all too familiar song continues as your brother-in-law stands before you, top three buttons of his black button down undone, hand still extended. He’s bright and shining, fresh and new, calmer than you ever remember seeing him, and yet, this song reminds you of how fragile things can be.

 

_And they say she's in the Class A Team-- stuck in her daydream, been this way since eighteen. But lately her face seems slowly sinking, wasting, crumbling like pastries. And they scream the worst things in life come free to us._

 

He lowers his hand, his smile dropping with it as the tears build up in your eyes and the pressure grows in your chest. “Clarke?”he asks you, laying the fork on the countertop and taking a step towards you. Wrapping an arm around you, he pulls you close just as the floodgates release, tears streaming down the curves of your face. “Oh no, come here,” he protests, his deep voice vibrating in your chest as he wraps his other arm around your shoulder, resting his chin on your head. “Come here.”

_  
'Cause we're just under the upper hand and go mad for a couple grams. And she don't want to go outside tonight. And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland or sells love to another man. It's too cold outside for angels to fly. Angels to fly._

 

“I used to love this song,” you stumble through the sobs, feeling your tears on his shirt in front of you. Turning your head to the side, you allow him to tighten around your shoulders as you inhale deeply. “But now it hurts too much… It’s too raw.”

 

_Ripped gloves, raincoat. Tried to swim and stay afloat. Dry house, wet clothes. Loose change, bank notes. Weary-eyed, dry throat. Call girl, no phone._

 

“Clarke,” he laughs, his shoulders brushing against your face as you inhale again. “Clarke,” he repeats your name two more times. “Clarke, I’m so sorry.” You can hear the hitch in his tone as he speaks the words you know he’ll probably be repeating for months. “I never meant to hurt you.” The tremble in his chest grows as you continue to sob into his shoulder.  
  


_And they say she's in the Class A Team-- stuck in her daydream, been this way since eighteen. But lately her face seems slowly sinking, wasting, crumbling like pastries. And they scream the worst things in life come free to us._

 

Pushing away from him, you allow him to continue to hold you at arm’s length as you glance him over again as if something has changed in him. “Don’t leave us again,” you beg of him, watching as his face drops even more, the sadness in his eyes apparent in the tears that are falling down his cheeks to match yours. “I can’t lose you too.”

_  
'Cause we're just under the upper hand and go mad for a couple grams. And she don't want to go outside tonight. And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland or sells love to another man. It's too cold outside for angels to fly. Angels to fly._

 

Smiling, he pulls you in once more, kissing the top of your head as your arms wrap around his waist. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assure you, his chin resting on the top of your head. “I’m here to stay.”

 

Breathing in deep, you take one final breath as the song ends and an acoustic guitar begins strumming through your speakers. “Good,” you mumble, exhaling slowly as the rest of your family laughs again one room over, oblivious to the moment that you and Lincoln are having just a few feet from them. “Because we need you.”

 

And if it hasn’t been apparent before, It’s more obvious now than ever--

 

As Lincoln holds you tightly and the sounds of your family joking and laughing fill your halls, you are reminded exactly how much this all means to you.

 

This is your life.

 

This is where you want to be.

 

      

 


	14. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, It's that time. It's the last chapter... So I added the epilogue because I had planned for this ending a long time ago, but factors made me rethink it. Honestly, I wanted this from the beginning since it matched so well with the end of Learning To Breathe, but the way that Season 3 progressed made me think about changing my mind...
> 
> But i didn't. Instead, I chose to include the epilogue with this chapter so it would all make sense.
> 
> That internal battle is why it took me almost 3 months to post! I'm sorry for the delay, but here you are... 
> 
> The final chapter.
> 
> and just like Learning to Breathe...
> 
> The chapter where Italics are present time and everything else is flashbacks...
> 
> I love you guys all very much. Thank you for taking this adventure with me! You're the best!
> 
> Thanks so much for all of the great messages on tumblr!
> 
> don't forget to listen to the updated playlist:  
> http://8tracks.com/roliver4/making-december-by-roliver4  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLau3zdws8xXpu579LVpujJNhGyjGwxmrB
> 
>  
> 
> and follow me on tumblr so we can chat and you can tell me how much you hate me!!! shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com

**_LEXA_ **

 

_It’s easy. Honestly, December is easy, and this thought cracks a smile across your lips as you pull your knees into your chest on the couch, admiring the new, finally working fireplace that you and Bellamy installed earlier in the week, only two days before he moved out. Taking a deep breath, you inhale the chamomile tea in your hands, the warm steam filling your nostrils as your eyes close and the fire crackles gently across the room. December was never easy. It wasn’t the hardest-- oh no. That title was reserved for February… and probably September, but December was a close third._

 

_It’s not that you don’t like December. No, actually, you love December. The weather is nice and cool-- but not too cold. You don’t normally get snow or anything too crazy, but it’s still chilly enough to curl up with a book and read away an evening while you wait on your love to finish her shower._

 

_No, you love December, but Decembers have always been hard. But you’re 21 days into December and so-far-so-good. Clarke is doing well. The baby is doing well. Your brother is doing well. Bellamy is doing well. Everything is going well._

 

_Exhaling slowly, you lift your tea to your mouth, smiling again as the warm liquid hits your tongue. Flipping the next page in your book with your left thumb, you read the words slowly, taking in every profound statement offered on each line._

 

_“And what good does it do you to be rich?” you read aloud, interrupted only by the crackle of the logs in the fireplace. “It makes it possible for me to buy more stars, if any are discovered.” The words leave your mouth just in time for the chime of the alarm on your front door to add to the sounds stopping you from finishing the one book that Bellamy asked you to read for this month._

 

_“You’ll love it,” he had told you over coffee one morning. Honestly, you didn’t believe him. You had heard of The Little Prince once before. Actually, you thought you had read the children’s book, but as it turns out-- you hadn’t…. And as it turns out, it wasn’t really a children’s book either. No, in fact, this book challenged you from page one and as you dogear page 54, you understand exactly why Bellamy asked you to read it._

 

_“What’s up asshat?” Octavia asks, pushing your legs from the arm of the couch as she slides her body next to yours, a smile spreading across your face to match hers. “You ready for movie night?” the brunette asks you, curling her short legs under her body before shuffling her way against the couch to back her body into the corner and shoving her feet under the sides of your legs. Nodding, you close the book in your hands, tossing it gently onto the wooden table in front of you as Clarke rounds the corner, joining the two of you in the living room, towel still in hand as she dries off her blonde curls._

 

_“Where’s Lincoln?” your wife asks, making her way across the living room to the recliner closest to the fireplace, her pajamas matching yours. You grin at her before turning your attention back to Octavia, your friend pretending to gag in her mouth at you and Clarke’s matching flannel pajama pants._

 

_Sighing, the smaller woman rubs her eyes as she shakes her head. “I’ve stepped out of a fucking J.Crew magazine, haven’t I?” Her words are accompanied with another chime from the door, welcoming Lincoln, Bellamy, and Harper into your home as they turn into the living room with you._

 

_“Jesus Christ, It looks like a lesbian convention in here,” Bellamy laughs, tossing a white paper bag in your direction. You fumble with it until it lands on the floor in front of you, taunting you just an inch from your fingertips. “What’s with all the lumberjacks?”_

 

_Clarke laughs, pointing a finger at Harper who is also donning flannel pants as she squirms into the seat with your wife. “Don’t play, the straightest one in here is wearing them too!”_

 

_Murphy laughs from the doorway where he is slipping in, holding  a beer can in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. “Have you guys not heard?” Harper’s face falls into her hands as she mumbles and groans against the laughter of your group. “You all only thought that Harper was all straight and narrow.” Murphy throws his body down on the floor next to Bellamy’s feet, turning to place a hand on the curly haired man’s knee. “Poor Bell here has to fight both fields now.”_

 

_“What?” Lincoln laughs from his seat on the floor next to you. You struggle to fight back the small snorts of laughter as they surface while shoving the first donut from the bag in your mouth before wiping your hands on his shoulder, scanning the room that has now filled itself with your friends._

 

_Yeah. This is good._

 

_“Yup,” Murphy says before taking a drink from his coffee mug, chasing it with a swig from the beer can. “Our little hetero over there forgot to mention Echo.”_

 

_And with that, everything changed._

 

_You could feel your brother’s shoulders drop in unison with yours. You could feel the air tighten inside your lungs with the mention of that name. You could feel the heat on the back of your neck as it closed in, bringing darkness with it along with a flood of memories._

 

_“Echo?” Lincoln asks, his eyes shifting up towards yours._

 

_And that’s when it starts making sense…_

 

_Until Clarke chimes in._

 

_“Wait,” she asks, leaning forward. “Echo Emerson?”_

 

_And suddenly, it all got a little worse._

\---

**LINCOLN**

 

Turning the key in your ignition, you take a deep breath, exhaling slowly as you open your eyes to see the red illuminated sign reading TaeKwonDo against the dark grey of the building in front of you. It’s been a while. Thankfully, your employees could keep things going without you, but…

 

Maybe that was it, really.

 

Maybe they didn’t need you. I mean, according to the stats sheets they had emailed you earlier in the month, numbers were up. Membership was higher than it ever had been. Sales were on a steady incline. The after-school program had picked up. Fuck, they obviously didn’t need you.

 

Maybe you could just leave. I mean, what’s holding you to Macomb? Not Octavia. She talks about the three of you packing up and leaving on the daily. Not your friends-- not anymore. Sure, you’d miss them, but just like Raven, you’d come back from time to time. You’d be there for the important things. You’d be there for the real events.

 

So what’s here for you if not this academy? What’s here if not for the first place you ever worked?

 

Nothing… there’s nothing here….

 

And just as you start diving into the darkened river surrounding you, the passenger door of your truck opens, Murphy’s body squirming its way into the seat before he closes the door quickly, turning his face towards you. “So you ever going back in?” the man asks you, crossing one leg over the other in his ripped up, mud-stained jeans. “Or you just going to creep out here like a watchdog website posterchild?” You can’t help but snort a small laugh, bringing your right hand up to wipe the sweat off of your brow before turning to look into the building again.

 

The lights are on and you can vaguely hear the boom of the bass from the speakers playing the class playlist as your students continue their practice without you. It’s what they’re supposed to do. It’s what they’ve done for 3 months now, and honestly they should be able to go on just fine with or without you, but the knowledge that you’re replaceable makes your cringe inside.

 

Maybe this is what you needed though.

 

“But for real, are you going in today?” Murphy asks, turning his attention towards the building. “Because I’m sure your kids would like to see you.”

 

“It’s Black Belt class,” you tell him, watching as the flash of white uniforms cross the windows just enough for you to see. “They’re working on Elite Combat Aggression Skills.” The words flow freely from your lips as you watch one of the younger black belts sweep another student to the floor, falling with the older child and forcing a chuckle from your lips. “Tripp needs to balance his weight more.”

 

“Look I get it,” Murphy says, turning his entire body towards you and exhaling slowly. “If you’re not ready, that’s okay. You can try again tomorrow.” Your shoulders relax for a half a second before he begins speaking again, calling you out once more. “But eventually you’re going to run out of tomorrows and you’re going to have to face two truths.” Inhaling deeply, you brace yourself for the reality that the man beside you is about to spit. “Truth one: your Sooners are going to lose the bowl game.” Your extended punch meets his shoulder and he sways against your force, a laugh filling your car from his lips. “Truth two,” he begins again, lifting his scarred hand to rub his shoulder. “Eventually, you’re going to have to go in there, but you don’t have to do this shit alone.”

 

Biting down on your lip, you nod, turning your head towards the front door again, watching as your students run from one end of the mat to the other, jumping over orange hurdles on their way. “You’re right,” you mumble, exhaling the air that’s been trapped in your lungs since you pulled into the parking spot over an hour ago.

 

“I know I am,” Murphy laughs, rubbing a hand over the top of your freshly shaved head. “Look big man, you’re not the only one of us with baggage, okay? You’re just the only one who is you. Let us help?”

 

Nodding your head once more, you reach out a hand to Murphy and he greets you, his thin fingers wrapping around your wrist as you grip his tightly. “Deal,” you say with a small smile as the man holds your arm. Exhaling slowly, you took towards the door before turning back to him, releasing his arm as you speak. “Wait,” you ask as it dawns on you. “What are you even doing here?”

 

With a snort, Murphy opens the door to your truck, sliding his body from the seat. “Come on asshole, you owe me a Mountain Dew from your soda machine.” He closes the door just as you open yours, your feet touching down in the academy parking lot for the first time in three months. Inhaling deeply, you close the door, following behind Murphy as he begins the walk to the building.

 

Reaching the front door, you smile, your hand resting on the handle as the music begins to drown out your thoughts with its heavy beats and fast paced rhythm to motivate your students. “So this was all about a mountain dew?” You ask with a laugh, pulling the handle back as the glass door follows.

 

“Mr. Holcomb!” The students all shout in a cluster, each drowning out its predecessor.

 

“Nah,” Murphy smiles, following you into the building and keeping steady pace beside you as you navigate through the gym bags and water bottles littering the space next to the mat. “But it helps.”

 

Smiling down at your shorter friend, you nudge him into the wall, laughing as he pushes back, causing you to shuffle a small bit.

 

Honestly, this is what you’d be missing out on if you left.

 

Whether you wanted to admit it or not… you were trapped here.

 

And that’s not too bad of a fact.

 

\----

**HARPER**

 

God. It was something about the way that this girl spoke that made you weak in your knees. It’s not like she’s the only girl that you’ve dated. There was that one crazy bitch about a year or so back, but she hardly counts. Your relationship was nothing but comfort and learning to be yourself. You didn’t really love her-- not like Echo.

 

Shit, you’ve never loved anything like you love Echo. It was fast and strong, coming on like a hurricane and from the moment you realized it, you couldn’t let go. You know that shattering glass feeling in conversation when you’re suddenly made aware of something and it’s all you can see? That was Echo. From the moment that you saw her, you knew that she was going to destroy you, but you were ready, holding the matches with shaking hands and waiting to burn yourself down for her.

 

And Jesus Christ if it wasn’t happening again. This time was different though. This time wasn’t about her. This time wasn’t about you. This time was about him-- Him and only him.

 

But goddamnit the way she smiled at you the moment you walked in that bar after leaving Lexa and Clarke’s driveway for the last time, the dark hooded sweatshirt pulled over your head and your fingers tracing the corners of the paper lined with his handwriting shoved inside of your pocket… you were fucked.

 

“Well look here,” Echo laughed, downing the shot in her hand as you approached the bar, sliding into the open seat next to her. “It’s been a while Harper.” When your name leaves her lips, it dances up your body, sending a static wave through you, beginning in your legs and traveling through your fingertips. The rasp in her voice is exactly as you remember it, gruff and rugged-- wild and uncontrolled. Everything that you don’t need-- but everything that you want right now.

 

Honestly, she could be anyone right now. She could be the guy sitting two seats away from her. She could be the bartender pouring another shot for the woman next to you. Hell, she could be Bellamy if you tried hard enough, but she was convenient. She’s low hanging fruit and as long as you don’t try, she’s here.

 

She’s just a warm body, and honestly, just a warm body is what you need right now.

 

Taking a breath, you pull your hands from your pocket, leaving the paper inside, and place them on the counter, allowing Echo to order you your first drink as she pulls a bag from her pocket, shaking the pills towards you. “You still in?” she asks, reminding you of the last time you saw it.

 

College.

 

College was the last time that you hung with that crowd, chasing the high, chasing the lines.

 

“Let’s go,” you finally reply after another long, drawn breath, tossing the pink tablet back with your shot, swallowing before it reaches your tongue.

 

And as the liquor washes over your mouth, you can’t help but laugh internally at the song that begins playing over the speakers with bass line and synthesized sound, almost losing itself into the crowd. Niykee Heaton’s Champaign would be the song playing as you turn to face her, your perfect vice.

 

“So why are you here Harper?” the blonde asks, brushing your hair back from your face before she reaches over to the bar top, grabbing the new shots and handing you one. “You told me to leave.”

 

_Racin' through my mind and I think it's the last time, Lips as sweet as wine, so I drink just to pass time. Make me come alive, take me high, and I can't lie I just wanna hide the pain._

 

Could you honestly tell her that these lyrics that just sang themselves through the crowd are the reason why you stumbled into this bar for the first time in years? Could you honestly tell her that the note card inside your pocket with his words are the reason why came here, knowing that you’d find her here? Could you honestly tell her that after three years of sobriety, losing him was all that it took for you to become your only enemy.

 

Taking the shot back, you cringe as the liquor fills your mouth, swallowing back your reaction as you force the cheap tequila down, taking a quick breath to regain yourself before you turn towards the girl, her face unchanged from the last time you saw it three years before. Opening your mouth, you close it again before the words come out, swallowing back your real reasons once more before quoting to her, “And in the end, we were all just humans, drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.”

 

She smirks, the scar above her right eye reminding you of the fight she got into at a concert 5 years earlier. “You won’t find that here,” she continues to laugh, sliding you another shot. Wrapping your hand around the small glass, you continue to stare at the blonde, her brown eyes shifting between yours and the shot glass in your hand. “But you can drink that feeling away.”

 

Taking one last breath, you throw the drink back, forcing the liquor down along with all of your reserve. All you wanted to do now was black out all the memories running through your veins. All you wanted to do was forget.

 

\---

**CLARKE**

 

“I swear to god, mom, if you’re telling me that you’re getting married…” the words laugh from your mouth as you take you your seat across from your mother, the hostess laying the menu in front of you with a nod. Glancing around, you take it all it. It’s nice-- but nothing less could be expected from Abby Griffin-- not when she has her way. The cloth napkins and clear wine glasses on every table are separated by some stupid floral arrangement that not only sufficiently blocks the view of half of your mother, but also makes your nose itch and it placed too entirely close to that open flame between you.

 

Jesus… this is why you stopped hanging out with your mother as much-- she’s so exhausting.

 

And It’s not even really her. I mean, that’s only partially true. Your mother is exhausting as fuck, but it’s mainly not her. For the most part, she’s manageable… It’s her aura though. It’s this…. This stupid fucking resturant… these stupid fucking candles…. These stupid fucking meu items that make every dish sound like a foreign delicacy. It’s all just too much…

 

It’s all just so not you.

 

You smile awkwardly at your mother quickly before glancing back down at your menu, knowing that you’re not going to eat anything on this menu.

 

First, there’s fish. Gross. Second, everything is smothered in butter or some sort of breadcrumb and no matter how much you keep the demons at bay, they’re always there, reminding you of how much weight you’ve gained. No matter how many times your friends remind you of the life growing inside of you, they’re always there. No matter how many times you hear the phrases “you’ve grown gracefully” and “you hardly even look pregnant,” the demons in your mirrors remind you of your vices.

 

No, you’ll settle for a salad… the baby likes salad.

 

“Clarke,” your mother sighs after ordering a bottle of wine, the waitress taking the drink menu from her hand and smiling as she fills your water glass before retreating into the back of the dimly lit restaurant. “You’re working too much.”

 

And it begins. This is what you meant when you said she was exhausting. It’s not even that she’s exhausting…. It’s just that you’re exhausted and she’s here. “Mom,” you attempt to interrupt her, her words continuing as the wine bottle meets your table. She’s still fucking speaking. “Mom,” the glass is poured and yet she is still talking. “Mother!” You raise your voice, the poor waitress biting back the cringe as she flees the scene, leaving a poured glass for your mother. “Mom, I’m fine.” Rubbing your eyes, you breathe in the deep silence for a moment, refusing to make eye contact with the brunette in front of you, knowing that her eyes are staring a hole straight through your head.

 

“I’m just saying,” Abby begins from the other side of the floral arrangement, lifting the glass to her lips.

 

Taking a single breath, you exhale slowly before cutting her off again. “Stop.” Surprisingly, she does. “Don’t act like it’s something new.” Your mother sighs, breathing in the air required to argue, but you don’t let her. Leaning in, you blow out the candle in front of you and shuffle the red and white flowers to one side of the table before giving up and lowering them to the floor beside you, freeing your view of the bouquet so you can actually see your mother’s face. Shock. Disgust. Embarrassment. That’s what’s written across her cheeks. “Now, let’s talk. Real talk here. You and me.” Ignoring her expressions, your hands push against the table, leaning forward in your seat to rest your elbow on the table. “Work is all I’ve ever known. If it wasn’t you, it was Dad working to keep your marriage alive.”

 

The first blow steals the air from your mother’s lungs as her eyes widen and her lips part to argue. But you’re not letting up.

 

“Then it was you throwing yourself into work to try to ignore your grief.”

 

The second round curls her over, her head dropping as her fingers trace circles on her wine glass.

 

“And it’s not like this is new. I mean, I learned how to grieve from you. I learned that if I ignored it, then it would go away. If I threw myself into sports and academics and I controlled everything in my life then I could survive.” You take another breath, stealing the air from your mother’s lungs. “I learned from the best. The one person who was left to show me how to live after dad died threw herself into work-- what did you expect?”

 

You’ve never really blamed her-- not out loud. You’ve left that to everyone else, but for the first time ever, your words were leaving your mouth without your permission and were speaking the truth of your condition-- you learned it all from her.

 

“Clarke,” she begins, lifting her head, tears filling her eyes, but you’re not done.

 

“No,” you say, refusing her the opportunity to defend herself. You still have more to say. “And when I lost Lexa, I worked. When I lost Tris, I worked. When I lost Lincoln, and Raven, and Bellamy, I worked. When I lost control, I worked. When I lost my memories, I worked. When I lose anything, I work… And when I lose myself, I work. It’s all I’ve ever known.” Taking another breath, you lift the water glass to your parched lips,  downing a quick sip before continuing, feeling the words build in your chest. “Or do you not remember my shaking hands as I tried to relearn how to suture a wound? Or how hard it was for me to even learn what each code meant when called over the speakers? Or even how to tie my shoes without falling over sideways?”

 

Your mother’s eyes continue to stare into the wine glass in her hands, the whirlpool forming from her turns displaying the hurricane in your words. She shudders under your breaths and for a moment, you begin to feel bad for her-- but that’s always how it happens.

 

“We have so much to work for,” you say, choking back your own tears as your eyes meet your mother’s again. “I have so much to pay back.”

 

Your poor waitress begins to approach the table, notepad in hand as she awkwardly ushers your orders out of you. Your mother pretends everything is fine even if the streaks down her face say otherwise. You, on the other hand, can’t even fake it. You order your salad, ignoring the looks from your mother as your eyes stay focused on the menu in front of you. If you look up at either of them, you’ll be admitting what’s inside.

 

You’ll be admitting that there’s an issue.

 

And that’s when it dawns on you-- you and your mother are exactly the same. You may have mildly different ways of dealing with it, but you’re exactly the same. Where she ignores the issue and paints on her face and pretends that everything is fine while she smiles and orders her steak and mashed potatoes, you run the other way, ignoring it all together while pretending to be enthralled in the sides and drinks menu before you. While she looks up to meet the world, you stare down and ignore it.

 

But at the center of it all is the fact that you are both pretending.

 

“What do you have to pay back?” she asks, choking back the tears that litter her words. She sucks at not crying-- I guess that’s where you get that too. “Who do you owe anything?”

 

Everyone.

 

But how do you say that? How do you say that to the woman who has never felt like she owed anyone anything? How do you say that to the woman who has only ever been upset by you? How do you say that to your mother?

 

“I owe it to the world,” you begin, pushing your hair back from your face. The blonde locks fall back in front of your eyes, intercepting your view of your mother. “I owe it to Lexa for all that she’s been through. I owe it to Octavia for all that she’s seen. I owe it to Lincoln for how hard he tries to make up for everything he’s done and to Raven for how much she’s survived. I owe it to Bellamy for how hard he tries to free himself from from his guilt and to Murphy for being who he is in spite of the world. I owe it to Tris for not being able to save her after how much she loved. I owe it to all of them… Shit Mom,” you finalize your list, lifting your head just enough to meet with her brown eyes. “I owe it to you for keeping me alive. I owe it to the world at this point-- to work hard so they don’t have to.”

 

Your mother just shakes her head lifting her wine glass to her lips once more before she reaches her hands across the table to grab yours. Her thin fingers are cold-- exactly as you’ve always remembered them. “You are your father’s child,” she snorts a small laugh, leaning in a little bit closer. You smile, chuckling with her as you lace your fingers through hers, feeling the tears as they race down your cheeks. “Just take care of my grandbaby, okay?” she asks. You nod, leaning your head forward against hers.

 

You may be just like your mother, but if that’s the case, at least you’ll always keep that promise to her.

\---

 

**CLARKE**

 

_This was getting weird. You knew that Norman was small, but jesus christ this was ridiculous._

 

_“So you dated Echo?” Harper asked Lexa, turning around in her seat to glance over to you. “I’m sorry.” Her joke and small chuckle fell on deaf ears as the silence lingered in the room, broken only by the sighs and deep breaths of your friends and the occasional crackle of the dying fire._

 

_“No, her roommate,” Lexa corrects her without lifting her eyes from the fingers that were twisting circles in her lap. She had yet to say Costia’s name, and you knew why._

 

_Saying her name would make it real. Saying her name would be admitting to it-- to what Lexa still felt like was a crime._

 

_Lexa was still a criminal in her mind. Lexa was still a murderer in her mind. And no matter how many times you assured her that she wasn’t, she was still never over it. She probably never would be._

 

_But you couldn’t blame her._

 

_You never have._

 

_The silence engulfed the room again and as you listen closely, you hear a small tremble escape Lincoln’s lips from his seat below your sister. Taking a  deep breath, you fight off the temptation to walk over to your brother and wrap your arms around him._

 

_This conversation is too much for him. Honestly, it’s too much for all of you, but for the Holcomb/Woods kids especially. I mean, all that you’re losing in this conversation is that now everyone knows the name of your shitty ex roommate that Bellamy saved you from. All that you’ve lost is the anonymity of someone that you had no care for. All that Harper’s lost out of this is that now everyone knows the name of her ex girlfriend. All that Murphy’s lost is that now everyone is talking about the story he’s told you all before. But Lexa and Lincoln….._

 

_Their entire past is being outted. From the moment that Lincoln first began using with Emerson in high school to Lexa’s complicated and abusive relationship with Costia. From all of the tears to all of the screams, every argument and every hospital visit-- it was all being laid out there against their will._

 

_This conversation was too much._

 

_“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Murphy laughs, crushing the beer can in his hand before downing the rest of his coffee. “If we’re going to sit here and do this, I’m going to need another beer.”_

 

_“Yeah,” Bellamy agreed, lifting himself from the spot that he had migrated to on the floor at your feet. He pushed off of your knee, patting it twice before flashing a quick, awkward smile your way. “Anyone else?” His head swivels on his shoulders to meet eyes with everyone as you scan the room too._

 

_Pretty much everyone’s face is the same-- Surprise._

 

_How in the fuck is it possible that all of you had known the same group of assholes, but never met before?_

 

_As Murphy and Bellamy move from the room with Lincoln in tow, your eyes meet your wife’s. And that’s when you see a new emotion-- Terror._

 

_Rising from your seat, you make your way over to her, grabbing her hand and tugging her to her feet, pulling her closely down the hallway without any words. It’s not until the bedroom door is closed behind you that you finally speak. “What’s wrong?” you ask, you fingers interlocking with hers._

 

_“I can’t do this,” she simply says, shaking her head as her eyes fall to the floor. “I can’t relive all of this.” She inhales sharply, pushing the air out of her throat just as quickly as it came in before she lifts her head to face you. “I can’t do this again.”_

 

_“You’re not,” you smile, not knowing if you’re trying to convince her or yourself more. Honestly, you can’t tell anymore who you’re lying to more. “None of this is going to come back.”_

 

_If only that was the case._

 

_But the sound of the chime from your front door told you otherwise. You didn’t even have to open the door to know that your promise had already been broken._

 

_And when Octavia’s voice rang out in the silence of your house, your stomach dropped to the floor._

 

_“Lexa!” the small woman’s raspy voice traveled through the walls of your home to meet you in the bedroom behind the closed door. “Clarke!”_

 

_And that’s the moment that you knew it for sure._

 

_You could never keep that promise that you just made._

  


\---

**LEXA**

 

“Alright Indiana Jones, chill,” Bellamy laughs, reaching out with his long arms and grabbing the machete from your hands. “I don’t need you going to the hospital for cutting off your arm today.”

 

You laugh as you release the small sword, relinquishing your power to your friend. “I’m always chill,” you lie, leaning over to nudge your sweaty friend with your bare shoulder, the rolled up sleeves of your dirt covered t-shirt hugging tightly to your armpits.

 

“Whatever,” he snorts a small laugh, bending down and grabbing a rake, handing it off to you before wiping his forehead with his glove covered hand. “You don’t even know the definition of that word.

 

He’s not wrong-- and this fact causes you to laugh as your eyes catch the German Shepherd in the corner of the yard rolling in the grass.

 

“Look at that smug motherfucker,” Bellamy snorts again, leaning onto the rake in his own hands. “Do you think he has any idea what sadness even is?”

 

Shaking your head, your curl your lips up before turning your eyes back to Bellamy. “Nah,” you say, licking your chapped lips slightly, tasting the mixture of salt from your sweat and the slightly metallic taste of the dirt and grime caked across your face. “Ryder’s too happy of a fucker.”

 

The dog lifts his ears at the mention of his name, turning his attention to you for a brief second before throwing himself on his back again, scratching against the grass below as he continued to roll and thrash.

 

“And what of Roma? How’s she doing?” He asks, your quick reply of ‘good’, telegraphing a look across his face. It’s one that you’ve seen a million times before. It’s one that you’ve come to know extremely well from the Blake siblings. It’s one that says he’s not believing you. Tugging at the fingers of his glove, he removes the shield from his right hand, taking it in his other hand before pulling those fingers free. “Really?” he asks, tucking his chin and glancing through the hair falling in front of his eyes. “Because that sounds fake…”

 

Taking a deep breath, you drop the rake in your hands, removing your gloves and wiping your face with your free hand, exhaling slowly. “No,” you shake your head as you speak, the air catching in your lungs as the single syllable word leaves your lips.

 

Bellamy leans against the rake, his hands folding across the top to support his chin, the stubble forming parts where his fingers meet his skin. “What do you mean?” he asks vaguely, causing you to exhale violently.

 

You hate that question. What do you mean when you say no? Well shit, you mean no! “She’s not grieving,” you finally say, turning your eyes back to your sister’s dog as he finally stops rolling, his body stretched out in the sun on the grass with his head thrown back. Honestly, he’s the biggest doofus you know. How is Ryder the production of 4.6 billion years of evolution? Bellamy snorts a small chuckle again at your response, drawing your attention back to him. He smirk across his face gives away the words he doesn’t even have to say….

 

Neither do you…

 

“But no,” you begin again, removing the other glove from your hand before tossing them both to the ground, wiping your temples as you groan. “She won’t even talk about her and when my sister comes up in conversation, Roma just leaves the room.” Bellamy nods, biting his cheek as you speak. You can tell there are words lingering in his throat, but you can’t stop yourself. “I hear her cry at night and all she does it work. I mean, I can’t even get her home for dinner.”

 

Your eyes fall to the pile of brush at your feet as you dig the toe of your tattered converse into the dirt. “You done?” Bellamy asks, ducking his head to your level. Swallowing deeply, you nod as you lift your eyes and he begins to speak again. “Because, no offense, but you literally just described yourself.” Opening your mouth to protest, you’re instantly cut off by the curly headed man in front of you raising a hand to your mouth. “No, my turn. You legitimately described every one of us… So don’t try to make it out like she’s the only one who isn’t dealing with this. You can’t even say her name in a sentence any more.”

 

“Fuck off,” you growl, tightening your grip around your rake and pulling at the brush in front of you violently.

 

Who the fuck was he to say anything about how you’re grieving.

 

“Lexa, stop,” Bellamy exhales, reaching a hand for the tool in your grasp, but you pull away quickly, spinning on your toes to face him.

 

“No,” you pull the rake back and shout loud enough to startle the dog behind you. Ryder makes his way towards the commotion, glancing between you and Bellamy with ears tilted to the side. “Stop acting like I’m supposed to be okay. Stop acting like I’ll ever be okay.” You inhale deeply, breathing out slowly, shuddering with each particle that leaves your lungs. “I have seen more death than you can even imagine, and I’m tired of it.” Bellamy steps back two steps, shock written across his cheeks. “I can’t keep carrying their ghosts with me so forgive me if I can’t say their names, but… I just can’t.”

 

The moment of silence that lingers between you two is just enough time for you to realize the exact magnitude of your words… for you to realize exactly who you are talking to.

 

“You done?” he asks you yet again, this time with a sharper tone that cuts deep into your heart.

 

Of course it’s him.

 

It’s always him.

 

Nodding your head, you close the gap between the two of you, reaching a hand out to his chest, pushing against the scars that paint the loss that he’s seen across his skin, his thin, white shirt serving as the only separation between you two. “I’m sorry,” you say through your mostly outstretched hand.

 

“Johnny Metcalf,” he says, his eyes fixed on yours. “Steve Wilson. James Hernanzez. Tristian Moore. Elias Blaze.” The list continued as you stared at your fingers, dirty and dark against his t-shirt. “It still hurts to say their names, but it doesn’t make them any less real. You don’t owe anything anymore, Lexa.”

 

“Why did you go?” you ask him, changing the subject, the confusion projecting from his eyes. “Into the military. What made you go?” You knew it wasn’t money. It wasn’t for education or because he had to. It wasn’t a sense of urgency or a requirement. So why did Bellamy Blake leave for the trauma that ruined him?

 

“I had to,” he begins, your hand still pushed against his chest. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I just had to. I didn’t go to be a hero or for honor or freedom or any of that shit that they talk about. That’s not why you go… or rather, that’s not why you’re there.” His words tremble slightly as they leave his mouth. “I just had to.”

 

Closing your eyes, you exhale slowly, pulling your hand from his chest and sliding into your pocket, pulling your phone and swiping up to unlock it, clicking on the music app all before you inhale again. “You listen to Rise Against?” you ask him, already knowing the answer.

 

“Only fuck yeah,” he laughs, leaning over your phone and placing his head against yours, his weight pushing against the rake below his chin again. “You know this though.”

 

Smiling, you nod gently as you click the song title, holding the phone against your chest as you stay with his head against yours, listening to the guitar opening.

 

_He said "Son, have you seen the world? Well, what would you say if I said that you could? Just carry this gun and you'll even get paid." I said "That sounds pretty good." Black leather boots. Spit-shined so bright. They cut off my hair but it looked alright. We marched and we sang. We all became friends. As we learned how to fight._

 

The lyrics ring out into the silence of your backyard as Bellamy breathes deeply, swallowing as the music continues.

 

_A hero of war. Yeah that's what I'll be. And when I come home. They'll be damn proud of me. I'll carry this flag. To the grave if I must. Because it's a flag that I love. And a flag that I trust._

 

Reaching your right hand out, you wrap your fingers into his, pulling them away from the rake as they tightened around yours, knuckles white as he squeezed harder. You pretended to not hear the shudders in his breath as he repositioned himself, continuing to lean against you.

 

_I kicked in the door. I yelled my commands. The children, they cried. But I got my man. We took him away. A bag over his face. From his family and his friends. They took off his clothes. They pissed in his hands. I told them to stop. But then I joined in. We beat him with guns. And batons not just once. But again and again._

 

You listened as the chords continued to ring just loud enough to stifle the sounds of Bellamy choking back his tears, but it wasn’t enough. You could see the glisten as they fell from his cheeks onto your shoes below, the dirt littered with dark patches under you. His fingers released slightly before you tightened back, holding him tight-- the only assurance that you could give him in this moment.

 

_A hero of war. Yeah that's what I'll be. And when I come home. They'll be damn proud of me. I'll carry this flag. To the grave if I must. Because it's a flag that I love. And a flag that I trust._

 

Taking another breath, you feel your own cheeks streaming with tears, adding to the artistic design as your feet as you tremble, holding tightly to your best friend’s fingers for the last verse.

 

_She walked through bullets and haze. I asked her to stop. I begged her to stay. But she pressed on. So I lifted my gun. And I fired away. The shells jumped through the smoke. And into the sand. That the blood now had soaked. She collapsed with a flag in her hand. A flag white as snow._

 

You want to speak. You want to apologize and hold him and tell him that it’s alright. You want to tell him that he’s different and that this song isn’t him and that it’s irrelevant, but you know that it’s not…

 

Not for him…

 

_A hero of war. Is that what they see. Just medals and scars. So damn proud of me. And I brought home that flag. Now it gathers dust. But it's a flag that I love. It's the only flag I trust._

 

As the silence fills the air with the last guitar strum, you shift just enough to pull your head from his, watching as your friend’s eyes stay fixated on the ground.

 

“You didn’t go to be a hero. I don’t get that, I’ll be honest-- but that means something,” you say, reaching your phone filled hand back to his chest, pushing it against his collarbone again. “You don’t know the war anymore. You don’t owe the country anything. You don’t owe the military anything.”

 

“No,” Bellamy agrees, but his tone saying otherwise. “But I owe them. I owe my men. I owe that kid. I owe his family for not protecting him. I owe them for their lives.”

 

With one hand still wrapped in his and the other against his chest, you can’t stop yourself as the words pour from your lips, louder than you meant them to. “Then stop fucking dying for them!”

 

And with that, you injured yourself as well. Both hands fell to your side as you took a step back, inhaling sharply as your eyes widened. The realization hit you like a ton of bricks and Bellamy smiled as he inhaled briefly, his words speaking your exact thoughts. “Talking to yourself too?” he asked, reaching a hand out to grab your shoulder, pulling you into his sweat covered body. With his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, he rested his chin on the top of your head as you layed on his shoulder. “Deal, but only if you promise to also, okay?”

 

Nodding, you swallow back another set of tears as you wrap your arms around his waist, licking the dirt off of your lips. “Deal.”

 

\---  


**CLARKE**

 

“Stop fucking scratching it,” you laugh deeply as you push your wife’s hand away from her arm, her nails dragging across her skin in one final, rebellious protest. The brunette groans, tossing her head onto the table in front of you with a small thud, sending another chuckle out of your lips to fill the nearly silent doctor’s office around you. “I mean, if you would have just waited until I got home to go play Indiana Jones in the backyard then we wouldn’t be in this problem.” The ponytail in front of your crumbled again as Lexa mumbled something into the tabletop, pulling her fingers to her head and scratching down her neck. “Stop,” you remind her again, lacing your fingers through hers to keep her from scratching.

 

Sitting up, your wife stares you in the eyes, her fingers still interlocked in yours. “I mean, who the hell gets poison ivy in the middle of December?” she asks you before throwing her hands into the air, pounding them down onto the wooden table.

 

Your eyes shift from side to side, watching the onlookers as their emotions change around you. The old man to your right with a newspaper in his hand chuckles as he slides his glasses up his nose. This is obviously just as funny to him as it is to you. The woman to your left, on the other hand, appears amused, her deep sigh accompanying the flip of yet another unread page in the magazine she’s been holding in front of her eyes for the past hour.

 

“And how long do these things normally take?” Lexa asks as your hand rises us from your knees to meet hers again as it tore violently at her left forearm. “We’re going to be late for dinner with Raven.” The irritation in her voice brings another smile to your face as a growling sigh exits the woman sharing the room with you again.

 

“It takes as long as it takes babe,” you tell your wife when you release her hand, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “Raven wouldn’t want you to be tearing holes in your skin all night anyway.” She groans again, lifting another hand to her neck which you swat away.

 

“Woods,” the nurse calls through an open door, smiling as you and your wife stand from the table and begin making your way to her. Lexa wraps her arms through yours and interlocks her fingers within yours. You can feel the pulse through her thumb as she tightens her grip on you, tugging your arm closer to hers.

 

“And why couldn’t you and your mother just treat this?” she asks as the nurse opens the second door on your left, telling you two to have a seat and wait for the doctor who will be in shortly. “I mean, I didn’t marry a nurse for no reason.”

 

You laugh as you take the seat across from your wife, lowering your body slowing in the chair with your hands on the arm rests. It’s getting harder to get up and down these days and it’s becoming more and more obvious to you that you’re getting close to popping-- whatever the fuck that means. Glancing up at Lexa, you can’t help but smile at the brunette’s feeble attempts to cover her stares. “I’m sure my charm and stunning looks had nothing to do with it?” you ask her, sarcastically whipping your hair from your shoulder with you right hand.

 

“Not a damn thing,” she responds, hopping down from the table where she was seated, her converse clapping against the grey tile floor. She closed the two steps distance, placing hands on either side of you, holding your wrists tightly to the armrest as she leaned in, planting a kiss on your parting lips. She lifted one hand to your neck, taking your left jaw in her palm as her tongue filled your mouth, forcing a small moan to exit your throat.

 

Goddamnit why does she do this?

 

It’s times like these when you hate her… Not really, but it makes things extremely uncomfortable for you. It’s like dinner at your mom’s house with your mother and Kane where her hand is tracing circles on your knee under the table before her fingertips dance under the seam of your dress, stroking just a little too high causing you to cough in the middle of Kane’s story about his trip to Kenya to avoid choking on the air that you were gasping in. It’s like when you’re sitting on the couch at Bellamy and Harper’s apartment with the television playing whatever this weekend’s movie is and her hands tug just a little too tightly at the waistband on your pants, causing you to squirm under the blanket at her grip.

 

She does this just to punish you.

 

And damn, she’s good at it.

 

Pulling away, she drags your lower lip between her teeth with a small huff, her smile tearing from the corner of her lips as you sigh, your eyes looking over her face. “I fucking hate you,” you mumble softly, lifting yourself with her, backing her into the table behind her with two small steps.

 

“Nah,” Lexa laughs, lifting a hand to cup the side of your face, kissing you through her smiling teeth. You kiss back until the door to your right clicks, causing you to jump back, knocking the chair over behind you with a loud crash.

 

Lexa laughs, pushing herself back up onto the exam table as your doctor’s moustached lips smile. “Should I come back?” he asked in a deep, resounding tone while you struggle with the chair at your feet, trying to lift it back to its place.

 

Looking back over to your wife, you can’t help but smile when you notice the red spreading over her freckled cheeks. Jesus Christ, this woman would be the death of you.

 

\---

 

**LEXA**

 

“Stop!” Clarke pushes your hand away from your arm again, gritting her teeth as she locks her fingers with yours-- not because she wants to but because she has to. Your mind is hyper-aware of these changes and it’s driving you up a wall.

 

In fact, after taking that pill at the doctor’s office and receiving the little white pills within an orange bottle labeled Prednisone, everything has been driving you up a wall.

 

Traffic wasn’t moving fast enough.

 

The wait at the restaurant was too long.

 

They didn’t have a specific beer that you absolutely wanted.

 

Raven chewed too loud.

 

Clarke wouldn’t let you scratch.

 

You were absolutely starving.

 

Jesus fucking christ… Is this what being on drugs was like? Your brain seemed to never stop and every sight or sound that occurred around you was intensified.

 

The smell of your waiter seemed like a middle school boy who wore too much Axe.

 

The taste of your food was too loud for your tastebuds.

 

The music in the restaurant wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the obnoxious conversations of other patrons.

 

Shit, you could feel Clarke’s pulse through her hand as it kept you from scratching the hideous rash that had grown on your arm due to you and Bellamy’s adventurous backyard building fest.

 

And as Raven’s story of something that happened in Germany continued, you couldn’t help but wonder if this is how Costia felt with you.

 

Irritated...

 

Frustrated...

 

Angry...

 

Hungry...

 

Cold...

 

Hot...

 

Tired...

 

Energized…

 

Everything all at once…

 

And yet, nothing at all…

 

\---

 

**_BELLAMY_ **

 

_Taking a swig of the beer in your hand, you listened closely with your knees curled into your chest as Harper spoke from the seat behind you, each shift in her weight shaking your shoulders that leaned against her shins. “I mean, we dated in college, but in the end, I couldn’t keep up with their lives…” Taking another drink, you allowed the can to linger at your lips before you drank again, swallowing down not only the horse-piss in a can that Murphy brought to movie night but also the demons that you’re too scared to fight._

 

_This is not how this night was supposed to go._

 

_No. You and Harper were supposed to be coming over for Christmas movies and greasy food with your friends. You were supposed to fall asleep on blankets covering the floor while the menu screen of A Christmas Story played on repeat until Lincoln got irritated enough to turn it off. You were supposed to be listening to Clarke explain the dangers of hanging icicles and be making jokes with Lexa about her nerdy wife. You were supposed to pick on your sister for leaving your nephew with a babysitter and joke with Harper about her obsessive need to decorate everything for Christmas._

 

_You weren’t supposed to be bringing up darkness and fighting off demons all night. You weren’t supposed to be watching as Lincoln bit his lower lip to the point of bleeding as he exhaled deeply, trying to comfort Octavia as she worried about her husband’s potential relapse. You weren’t supposed to be listening to Murphy try to assure everyone that interconnectivity in the drug world is normal and that it’s best to just ignore it. You weren't supposed to be watching Lexa as she was drug from the room by Clarke who was riddled with fear at your best friend’s inability to breathe._

 

_But somehow this was happening…_

 

_Somehow Clarke’s old roommate resurfaced and brought with her the demons you had all fought off._

 

_“It’s just weird that none of us had ever met!” Harper finally says, reaching down and taking the beer from your hands. “I guess we were all just one day late,” she chuckles before taking a sip and handing it back to you._

 

_You turn back to your girlfriend, smiling as your eyes met hers._

 

_One day late._

 

_That’s what changed everything._

 

_One day._

 

_Had you met Harper one day earlier, she could have still been with Echo._

 

_Had she still been with Echo, you wouldn’t have pursued her._

 

_Had you not pursued her, you wouldn’t have met Clarke._

 

_Had you not met Clarke, you wouldn’t have asked her to move in with you._

 

_Had you not asked her to move in with you, she would still be living with Echo._

 

_Had she stayed living with Echo…_

 

_Snorting a small laugh, you take the can from your girlfriend, downing the last remaining liquid before laying the can down beside you. It’s honestly funny how all of this is connected. You, Lincoln, Harper, Clarke, Lexa, Octavia, Murphy. It’s funny how you all needed each other. It’s funny how you became each other’s family._

 

_“Are we expecting anyone?” Murphy asks from the kitchen, emerging in the walkway with another beer in his hand as his voice reeked with concer. He looks around the room for a moment before finishing his thought. “There’s a car that just pulled up outside.”_

 

_This was absolutely not how today was supposed to go, but this is how it was going…_

 

_Whether you were ready or not._

 

\---

 

**HARPER**

 

Taking that pill was a mistake. You knew this the moment that it hit your tongue… But fuck, coming here was a fucking mistake. You should have just hopped that plane or drove out to Arizona. You’ve talked about it countless times-- but instead, you found yourself here, face buried deep into a couch cushion and the fuzziness in your head too heavy to even open your eyes.

 

“Good morning sunshine,” a blast from the past wakes you up, lifting your feet as a body crawls under them, allowing your legs to fall across his lap. “Hard night?” Lifting your head, you swallow down the nausea that bubbles through your chest, rolling off of the couch and onto the floor just in time to hear Carl Emerson curse as he lifts a bowl in the air, pushing your feet from his lap. “Fucking chill dude, you almost spilled my cereal.”

 

“What the fuck happened?” you groan, closing your eyes and forcing your lead filled hands to your face. “Why am I here?” Your mouth feels like the Sahara Desert and every time you move, you feel your eyeballs floating through your skull on a wave of sickness and tension.

 

“Bad batch, I guess,” Emerson laughs, lifting the spoon of Cheerios to his mouth, continuing his sentence with a face full of food. “I had to go pick you two gay-mos up from the precinct last night. Yall homos are going to have to learn to chill with this shit.”

 

Jail was not in your agenda.

 

Waking up in the Emerson house was not in your agenda.

 

“What?” you groan once more, glancing around quickly before the light forced your eyes shut again. It wasn’t too bright in here. It wasn’t too decorative. In fact, the living room was small and got the job done, but that was about it.

 

Honestly, it was exactly as you would expect from the Emersons.

 

“She’s awake!” Echo’s voice finds you just as you find your feet. “Had fun last night,” she laughs in passing, kissing your cheek as her nails drag across your arm.

 

What the fuck is happening?

 

“How much did I drink?” you ask, stumbling to take your first step, squinting towards the door. You can feel the knots in your hair and the film covering your lips it telling you that you need to brush your teeth, but right now, all that matters is that door. “What happened?”

 

“What didn’t happen?” Echo laughs before retreating into another room, leaving you, yet again, with her cereal eating brother.

 

“Yeah,” the blond man groans, the spoon still hanging from his mouth. He’s exactly as you remember him, just older. The young, high school aged boy now has a more defined jaw line and darker, more sunken in eyes, but everything about Carl Emerson remains the same…

 

Just like Echo…

 

“You two fuck too loud.” He lifts his body from the couch and follows his sister, carrying his now empty bowl with him and leaving you alone next to the patchwork couch.

 

This is your time.

 

This is time to leave.

 

Stumbling your way towards the door, you reach for the handle, swaying gently against the shift in your weight before you reach into your pocket with the other hand, grabbing the keys that have been stabbing you in the thigh for the past ten minutes. Turning the door handle, you’re greeted by the scalding sun, its light searing deeply into you as you stumble down the stairs of the old, beat up house.

 

“Jesus Christ,” you growl as you take your seat behind the steering wheel, unsure if you even closed the door to their house. Turning the keys in the ignition, you start the car and peel out of the driveway before you even notice the song playing in the speakers.

 

_And I'll use you as a warning sign. That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind. And I'll use you as a focal point. So I don't lose sight of what I want. And I've moved further than I thought I could. But I missed you more than I thought I would. And I'll use you as a warning sign. That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind._

 

It’s about 15 miles before the sickness takes over, forcing you to the side of the road to puke.

 

_And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be. Right in front of me. Talk some sense to me._

 

It’s another 25 miles after that before you realize that you’ve completely left town with nothing more than your wallet and the Bellamy’s sweatshirt in the passenger seat.

 

_And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be. Right in front of me. Talk some sense to me._

 

In 37 more miles, you stop for gas, filling up your car and making the next right turn for the interstate, deciding to finally take that step that you’ve been looking for.

 

_And I'll use you as a makeshift gauge. Of how much to give and how much to take. Oh I'll use you as a warning sign. That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind._

 

When you reached the Texas border, you plugged up your phone, turning the device on before tossing it into the passenger seat on top of the hoodie, ignoring it again for another 96 miles.

 

_Oh and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be. Right in front of me. Talk some sense to me._

 

Passing through Amarillo, you reach for the device, opening a blank text to Bellamy and swiping the words “I’ve fucked up.” Pulling to side of Interstate-40, you stare at the blinking bar, watching as it waits patiently for your next move. Exhaling slowly, you click the back button, deleting the entire message before throwing the phone onto the floor and beginning your trip again.

 

_And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be. Right in front of me. Talk some sense to me._

 

There was still another 700 miles until you would reach Phoenix. Still another 700 miles until you’d be far enough away from everyone.

 

_And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be. Right in front of me. Talk some sense to me._

\---

 

**LINCOLN**

 

It was these moments when you missed her the most. It was these times when you needed her there beside you, reaching her small hand into yours to interlock fingers and hold tight, tugging you forward against your will. As you lean forward in your chair, resting your elbows on your knees, you wrap your fingers in on themselves, mimicking the warmth of your little sister’s hands. Taking a deep breath in, you tremble the oxygen out before inhaling sharply to start speaking again.

 

“I’m here to deal with the issues that put me here….” snorting a small sarcastic laugh, you wipe your sweating palms across the knees of your dark jeans while leaning back in your seat. “If that makes sense,” you add, a small laugh joining your chuckle from the lips of the others in the group.

 

“Welcome, Lincoln,” they all say in unison, the cliche nature of Narcotics Anonymous hitting you full force. It’s exactly as you expected it to be…

 

And yet it’s not…

 

“Why don’t you start by telling us what’s going on in your head,” the group leader smiles from across the small circle, leaning in on his own chair and crossing his ankles in front of him.

 

How do you even begin to explain what’s going on in your brain?

 

How do you even begin to start telling these strangers everything?

 

How do you even begin speaking the song lyrics still echoing in your head from the car ride over here?

 

How do you even being to say that you hate everyone for hosting N.A. on a Thursday?

 

How do you tell them that Thursday was her day?  


-

 

_No paracetamol Gonna help to numb this pain. No amount of sunlight Gonna help to ease the day. No wise words Are gonna take away the gray. Take away the gray..._

 

-

 

“I don’t want to think about my sister’s sex life,” Tris groans as Lexa stumbles past you, the tape and gauze attached to her face causing you to smile awkwardly in her direction. Of course you had to give your little sister a hard time when she came bolting out of the workout room hyperventilating about your older sister so-called ‘flirting with the nurse’. That was impossible though.

 

Lexa doesn’t know how to flirt…

 

Gross.

 

Giving her two thumbs up, you chuckle to yourself, leaning one elbow onto the desk to your right, watching as your sister is tugged to the world outside by the blonde, stopping right outside to chat as Clarke removes her scrub top.

 

Jesus Christ, Lexa, stare a little more. Can you make it any more obvious?

 

Yeah, that’s right. You’re sister doesn’t know how to flirt-- especially when she stands there like a brick wall as Clarke interlocks arms with her again, pulling her towards the parking lot.

 

“Earth to Brometheus,” your younger sister laughs, hopping up and down twice to intercept your line of sight. “Are you ready to go?” Blinking it off, you nod, smiling at the younger girl.

 

“Yeah, let me get my keys,” you say as you place a hand on her shoulder, the younger girl squirming from your grip to make her way to the door.

 

Laughing slighly against the chaos that is a martial arts class in the background, she pushes her small face against the glass door, watching as the blue Ford Focus peels out from the parking lot. “Do you think this is a date?” she snorts, turning towards you with a smile. “Like, does Lexa even know how to date?”

 

Smiling back from behind the desk where you have begun digging through a basket filled with instructor phones and keys, you lift your head over the edge to see your sister, you hand still rummaging for the feeling of your belongings. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t see her tonight. You know how quickly Lexa feels.” The sarcasm bleeds from your voice as your hand finally finds your keys. “Got em’” you smile, dangling them in front of your face for Tris to see.

 

“Ew,” she squirms, her tan face scrunching up around her eyes, looking exactly like her father-- exactly like Lexa. “Don’t even act like Lexa has sex…. That shit doesn’t happen.”

 

As you round the desk, your sister continues to crawl in her skin, itching at her arms like she’s trying to dig the thoughts out of her skin. “I mean, it’s happened before… It’ll happen again,” you continue to laugh as she gags outwardly. Placing your hand on your little sister’s head, you turn her her towards the door, pushing her gently out of the glass that you’ve opened with your foot. “In any instance, what do you care? It’s movie night.”

 

Tris smiles, wrapping her small arm around your waist, pulling herself underneath your arm. “That’s true,” she laughs,  hugging you tightly.

 

-

 

_There's a hole in my heart that's missing you. There's a hole in my heart that's missing you._

 

-

 

It’s not like you didn’t invite Lexa. Shit, almost every Saturday for the last year and a half you’ve invited her out, but she never seems interested. No, normally there’s some documentary on Nazi Occupation of Poland or a new book worth reading. Instead of joining you and meeting your friends, she’s too enthralled in whatever new find from the library she’s located. It wasn’t always this way. At first it was anxiety-- Anxiety of the social scene. Anxiety of the alcohol involved. Anxiety of being around people who had vices. What her anxiety was about, you could never particularly pinpoint, but one thing was for sure… Lexa had a lot of anxiety. Costia had fucked her up. After the stress and anxiety of recovery had sort of began to control itself, work became the new reason. You could never really figure out if Lexa was honestly looking for reasons to not go out with you, but honestly, it didn’t really matter. When she returned to work, she dove in fast, and just like you, nothing was stopping that freighttrain.

 

After a while, it just became comfortable for her to not go. That’s when the books and movies began and you honestly stopped asking. It’s not that you didn’t want her to, but you understood your sister. She had never been much of the party goer- that was Costia….

 

That was you.

 

So stumbling into your house mildly drunk with the smell of cigarettes and cheap beer lingering on your clothes to find Lexa passed out on the couch with her legs curled to her chest and a beat up copy of The Iron Heel by Jack London clutched tightly to her body was nothing new. Honestly, the only thing that changed every week was the book. Last week was Lord of the Flies. The week before was A Bend in the River. Before that was The Color Purple. Honestly, you have no clue how she does it. How can she just go through books so easily and still enjoy reading?

 

Walking over to your sister, you pull the blanket lingering at her feet over her body, watching as she shifts slightly on her side, allowing her hand to reach of and tug the blanket under her cheek. More times than not, she looks like your step-father, but sometimes you see the soft glow of the woman that remains only in pictures-- the one who loved her unconditionally until her last day.

 

Sighing softly, you turn away from your sleeping sister and start making your way through the spinning house, carefully avoiding each table and chair, each stack of books and random, miscellaneous placed item that Tris refuses to clean up before her groggy voice interrupts your journey. “Lincoln?” Lexa calls out to you softly against the darkened silence of the living room. You turn, giving her a small ‘Uh huh,’ greeted again by silence. Stumbling back through the short hallway, you take a seat on the floor next to the couch, leaning against the smal coffee table behind you, tucking your knees up to your chest as you exhale, smelling the liquor on your own breath. “I’m sorry,” she speaks softly, reaching out to place her small hand on your knee. You rest your chin on her hand, turning slightly so she cups your face in her fingers.

 

“What for?” you can’t help but laugh as you close your eyes, listening to your sister’s soft, regulated breathing. She’s obviously still asleep-- You and Lexa really don’t have heart-to-hearts anymore…

 

Not since your fear of her losing touch of herself had subsided mildly. I mean, there was still fear-- there would always be fear. After everything that you had been through, there would always be fear that you would come home and find her gone…

 

Or worse…

 

But the fear was less. It was now a small whisper when she didn’t answer her phone instead of a panicked scream when you would pull into an empty driveway after work.

 

She pulled her hand back, tucking it under her own chin again as she repositioned herself, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, causing the book to fall to your feet. Picking it up, you closed it, shaking your head at it before placing it on the table behind you as she spoke. “For Costia,” she whispers, smacking her lips a few times before scratching her nose and returning to her cocoon.

 

“I know,” you say, lifting a hand to brush the small lock of hair from her face that was bothering her . She scrunched her nose and wiggled her jaw at your touch, but otherwise, Lexa appeared dead to the world at last. Lifting yourself after a few moments in the silent darkness, you push off of the table to your feet before being stopped by her words again.

 

“No,” she sighs, her legs moving under the blanket. “I’m sorry for me.” Her eyes are still closed and she stills herself again under the blanket, pulling her body in tights to a small ball and tucking her face into the blanket, protecting herself from the outside world.

 

Sighing deeply, you take a seat on the couch, lifting her feet to place them in you lap and resting your hands on her legs.

 

She still blames herself.

 

I mean, she always blames herself, but she still blames herself.

 

After everything that has happened…

 

And everything you’ve overcome…

 

She still blames herself…

 

“You  know none of this was your fault,” you say, wondering if you even believe that. I mean, you’ve said it to her over and over again… The therapists have said it to her over and over again... Tris has said it over and over again… Everyone has said it over and over again…

 

But sometimes you don’t believe it…

 

Sometimes you say it simply because it’s what she needs…

 

Sometimes you say it simply because it’s what you need….

 

And sometimes you say it simply because it’s all you know…

 

“You know I hated you, right?” you ask her, furrowing your brows as you turn to look at the ball of your sister beside you. “I mean, I wanted to not hate you. I wanted to love you, but when I watched Tris cry and had to be the only adult, I hated you…” Taking a deep breath, you shudder out the words, your lower lip trembling as you bite down on the corner of it, fighting back your own tears. Speaking the words you’ve held in for years now seemed harder than you thought it would. I mean, you had shouted very similar words as you fought razor blades and pill bottles from your sister’s hands, but speaking them in the clearest state of mind you’ve ever said them made it all sound different.

 

It made it all feel different.

 

“But I don’t hate you,” you added, wrapping your fingers around her ankle and squeezing it gently. She smiles, licking her lips in her sleep and giving you a small and faint ‘that’s good,’ before tucking her head back into the blanket. “No,” you shake your head, laughing at your sleeping sister. “I shouldn’t have hated you. I should have loved you better.”

 

Lexa exhales slowly, pushing the air out of her lungs as she snores sightly, her breathing slowing down against the sound of yours. She’s completely asleep now, no movement, no response. Smiling, you slide your body out from under her legs, pulling the blanket over her feet before making your way back to the hallway quietly.

 

“I should have loved you better,” her voice mumbles, repeating your last phrase as you flip the light switch, leaving her in complete darkness.

 

Stopping at the first door on your left, you crack it gently, instantly flooded with the light and soft music that was hidden behind Tris’ door. Squinting slightly against the scream of light, you glance around the room, your sister fast asleep in her bed under her usual pile of textbooks and papers. Walking over to her, you step over the chaos that is your teenage sister’s room-- clothes, books, pictures, and CD cases-- every teenage girl’s life vomited onto the wood floors below. “Jesus Christ,” you mumble as something reaches out to wrap itself around your ankle. Another soccer jersey or tank-top no doubt-- there was no in between. “Why does it smell like a locker room in here?” you groan as you reach you’re younger sister’s bed, the smell of gym socks and pizza masked only slightly by whatever Victoria’s Secret perfume she used to tried to hide her inner nasty. “Teenagers are gross,” you laugh to yourself, taking the biology book from your sister’s weak grasp and placing on the table next to her bed. Looking over at the book sstill in your hands, you pick up the cracked frame to your left, the picture of Lexa holding Tris as a baby bringing a smile to your cheeks. Tracing the corners of the cracked glass in the old wooden frame, you sit on the corner of the bed next to Tris who only shifts slightly in her bed, her hands lifting to cover her still closed eyes as a small grumble escapes her lips. Reaching for an unframed picture on the table, you grab the paper from the top of the pile of scribbles, soccer plays and geometry assignments alike. The picture in your hands causes you to snort a small laugh as joy bubbles inside of you at the sight of you and Lexa pulled tightly against Tris’ sweaty, dirt covered face from her last soccer game. Tris’ hair is plastered across her forehead as her smile matches Lexa’s, her eyes looking just like yours in this one. Smiling again, you run your thumb across your sisters’ matching smiles before laying the picture down, turning of the light on the end table and leaving Tris’ room, turning towards your own.

 

Once behind the safety of your own room, you throw your body down on your bed, your eyes staring up at the rotating ceiling fan as your toes battle with the shoes on your feet. Kicking them off of the side, you hear the shoes hit the wooden floor with two small thuds that are accompanied only by a sigh from your own lips. Rubbing your eyes, you scratch your hands over your hare head before closing your eyes, instantly feeling the wave of exhaustion rush over you.

 

Things may not be perfect yet, but they’re getting there.

 

Day by day…

 

They’re getting there.

 

-

 

No paracetamol Gonna help to numb this pain. No amount of sunlight Gonna help to ease the day… We never saw it coming. We didn't have a clue. The trees. They lost to winter. As the winds came running through...

 

-

 

“It’s okay if you’re not ready,” the group leader explains again after your long, drawn out silence. The shuffles of the people around you draw you back in quicker than the words of the man who is still watching you, his hands folded together in front of his body.

 

“No,” you finally say, lifting one hand to rub your eyes. “It’s time that I learn to talk about it.” You smile, turning your head to meet the eyes of each person in the circle, all looking on with the grace and forgiveness that you want to offer to yourself. “It’s time that I learn to talk about her.”

 

The group leader nods his balding head, smiling back as you as he leans back in his seat, placing his hands on his knees. “So tell us about her,” he says, his welcoming tone urging you forward.

 

Swallowing deeply, you take a single breath before diving in, knowing there was no turning back now. “Her name was Tris… Is Tris… And my addiction…” Licking your lips, you glance around, taking another breath before trembling out the words that you’ve run from this entire time. “My addiction caused me to miss her last days of life.”

 

-

 

There's a hole in my heart that's missing you. And this is what it feels like. There's a hole in my heart that's missing you. And this is what it feels like.  


\---

 

**LEXA**

 

It normally isn’t this hard. Shit, you’ve become a pro at it-- and even better at hiding it, but recently both have been hard.

 

Could it possibly be that you’re actually getting better?

 

Or maybe you’re just getting worse and this is the time to finally admit it.

 

You’re getting worse and it’s time to realize it.

 

Gripping tight to the cold steel in your hand, you take a breath and exhale just in time to hear the door to the house slam shut.

 

Shit.

 

See, you’re getting bad at this… This should have already been done. He shouldn’t come home to this.

 

Fumbling quickly, you cram the blade back into your pocket, slamming the door to the cupboard shut almost too loud.

 

“Lexa?” Lincoln asks from behind the handleless door, nudging it slightly and cracking it open.

 

“Hold on,” you interrupt him, pushing the door closed with you foot. “I’m almost done.” The panicking words exit your lips as quickly as your hands work to hide the evidence. Scooping up the blood covered toilet paper, you shove it into the toilet and flush quickly before the  door swings open.

 

“You know the rules,” your brother argues, leaning onto the doorframe, his work uniform hugging close to his arms. “When I’m not here you have to keep the door open.” Tris emerges behind your brother, passing through without words, maintaining her eye contact with the floor. This has been hard for her-- you know that, but honestly, you couldn’t care any less. She couldn’t care any less. Straightening up, you shove past Lincoln with a nod and a “yeah, I forgot.” Making your way into the kitchen, you bump past your sister as she passes through again-- a ship in the night, refusing to acknowledge you.

 

“Lexa,” Lincoln asks, stopping you in your path to the refrigerator. Honestly, you didn’t want anything, you just wanted an excuse to diffuse guilt. But the tone in his voice halted your step and caused your stomach to drop. It was obvious that he found something. “Lexa, let me see your arms.”

 

There it is…

 

He knows…

 

Tris stops, the sound of her footsteps ceasing alerting you to this. Turning to face them, you smile awkwardly, faking it the best you can. “What’s up, Linc?” you ask, acting as if nothing’s wrong.

 

Honestly, you should be better at acting at this point. You should be better at all of this…

 

Fuck, if nothing else, you should be better by this point…

 

But you’re not…

 

“You arms,” he says again, taking a step towards you. You take a step back. This dance continues for another three steps while your younger sister looks on from behind him, her eyes finally lifting from the floor to meet yours.

 

“Why?” you laugh, rolling up the sleeve of your shirt about two inches-- about two inches lower than your evidence. It’s not technically a lie…. Right?

 

“Oh fuck this shit, Lincoln,” Tris finally speaks, pushing past your brother to reach out and grab you arm, pulling your sleeve up past your elbow, revealing the marks of your crimes.

 

“Fuck off!” You demand, pushing your sister away before pulling your arms back. “Don’t act like you fucking give a damn.” The paleness in her face spreads across her cheeks as she withdraws her own arms, pulling them close to her chest. For a half of a second, your younger sister stares at you, her hands crossed tightly over her collarbone. It doesn’t take long, however, for her glance to fall to the floor again.

 

“Where is it?” Lincoln asks, turning towards the bathroom. Through the walls you can hear him rummaging through the cupboard, tossing items to the floor. “Where is it?” he repeats again, two more times before Tris lifts her eyes back to you.

 

“Linc,” she begs, the realization donning on you both at the same time.

 

Fuck, she’s smart.

 

Before you can even see her eyes fall to your pocket, you turn, pushing yourself off of the counter and sprinting to the door. “Lincoln!” Tris yells, following you close behind. With each step you take, she closes the distance until she meets you, taking you to the floor of the carpeted living room by your shoulders, pulling herself on top of you. “Lincoln, she has it!”

 

Honestly, you don’t know what you’re screaming at her. There are words, that much you know, but between the slur of profanities and the names exiting your lips, your brain doesn’t process anything except for the hands reaching inside of your pocket. “Get the fuck off of me!” You manage to shout, swinging a hand towards your sister’s face before you grab her hand, the blade tucked deeply into her fist. “Give it back!” She’s shouting back at you, less hostility in her tone than yours, but just as much energy.

 

The only words that you can understand from your sister’s bleeding face before Lincoln pulls her off of you is “I’m not letting you go damn it,” but these words mean little from the teenager being pulled away by her older brother. “Costia has fucked everything up for us,” Tris shouts, turning towards Lincoln to throw the blade at his chest. “She has to go,” she continues, reaching a blood covered hand to her forehead.

 

As you pull yourself to your feet, you watch your sister make her way towards the back as Lincoln reaches down, retreiving the blood covered blade from the carpet below. “Lexa,” he exhales, rolling his head to his side as his hand finds his pocket. “You have to end it,” he mumbles, reaching out towards you.

 

“I’m trying!” you shout, not knowing if you’re talking more about your ongoing relationship with Costia or your life. To be honest, it’s hard to tell the difference in the two sometimes.

 

Taking a deep breath in, your brother reaches a hand up to his head, rubbing his eyes before opening his mouth to speak again. “Get in the car,” he says, pulling his keys from the belt loop of his guard uniform. You follow his instruction with little argument, the wave of exhaustion beginning to rush in on the shore of your body. Dropping your shoulders, you push through the door, hearing your brother lock it gently behind you. Making your way to his truck, you linger at the door befoore he opens his own, urging you in once more. “Please don’t run,” he says exhaustedly, rolling his head around as he starts the engine. You do as he asks, sliding into the seat without argument and closing the door behind you.

 

“Where are we going?” you finally break the silence after three left turns and a right one. Looking over at your brother, you watch as the man maintains his focus on the road, merging lanes gently. Gripping tightly to the edges of your seat, you turn your face towards the dry roads of Norman, Oklahoma once more, wondering if his thoughts race just as much as yours do when on the road.

 

“You gotta do this,” he says, making one more right turn on to a road that you are far too familiar with.

 

“No,” you argue, placing your hands on the dashboard in front of you. There’s no way that you’re going into that house. Not today. Not right now.

 

“Yes,” Lincoln rebuttles with one simple word, pulling into the gravel driveway on the right. “We need you to Lexa.” Pushing the gear shift into park, your brother turns to look at you, unbuttoning the top button of his guard uniform. “Please.” The words exit his mouth with a sigh, the exhaustion in his tone filling the vehicle around you. “You have to.”

 

Swallowing deeply, you lick your lips, nodding at him before turning towards the door, pushing out and touching your converse covered feet onto the gravel. Glancing back once more at him, you force a smile to match his, the tension between your glances thick enough to drown in. Closing the car door, you take the five steps to the door to the stairs-- the stairs you’ve traveled far too many times. Taking in the scent, you inhale deeply, knowing that this will be the last time you enter this building. Swallowing back your tears, you walk up the steps slowly, one at a time. Normally you’d bound up them, skipping one or two each time, but not today. Today you’d take your time.

 

Reaching the off white, chipped paint covered door, you place a hand on the cold metal doorhandle, listening to the noises inside. There was laughter-- there was always laughter-- and a faint music playing in another room. Turning the handle, you push the door open gently, watchin as your hand follows the door, dragging you inside.

 

“Hey babe,” Costia smiles from across the room, lifting the small glass pipe to her lips. “Want in?” She asks before inshaling deeply, the ash on the top of the pipe illuminating red as it burned. You simply shook your head as you stood, pulling the sleeves of your black button down over your arms.

 

“Of course she doesn’t,” Echo laughs from the seat next to Costia. “She never does.” The blonde winks at you before adding some ‘we’ll get you smoking soon kid’ kind of comment, taking the pipe from Costia’s hands.

 

A toilet flushes from the bathroom in the room next to you, breaking the silence only accompanied by Echo’s deep inhale before Anya emerges, passing through the room to pat you on the arm while she walks through, the smell of citrus and vanilla following behind her.

 

Taking a deep breath, you wonder if this is the right thing to do. I mean, how hostile is this environment? Maybe it’s you. Maybe the problem has nothing to do with them. Maybe it’s actually just you.

 

But then you remember Tris’ swelling eyeball and bloody hand as she left the kitchen.

 

All of that was because of you.

 

All of that was because of this.

 

“Come sit,” Costia says with a smile, adjusting herself in her seat. You can see the glaze over her eyeballs. You can see the relaxation in her cheeks. This is not the girl that you met on the pedestrian walkway those years ago. This is not the woman who you raced with, challenging to be better, faster, and stronger. This is not the woman that you thought she was.

 

And most importantly, this was not who you needed in your life.

 

“I can’t do this,” you finally speak, forcing Costia to sit up in her seat. The look on her face is obvious confusion, the relaxation in her cheeks fading into strain as she struggles to focus her eyes on you. “I can’t keep living like this.”

 

There’s a silence that lingers for a moment before Echo snorts a small laugh from beside your… girlfriend? “Don’t worry,” she continues to laugh, her head rolling from side to side with each word. “You won’t be living much longer at the rate you’re going anyway.” Echo lifts one hand, running her fingers across her forearm, taking the air from your lungs as she pretends to paint her own artwork across her wrist.

 

Costia chucks, reaching out a fist to punch Echo in the shoulder as she stands. “Shut the fuck up dude,” the now brunette continues to laugh, closing the distance between you with swayed steps. “Come here Lexa. You don’t mean this.” Her arms find their way around your shoulders and for a moment you believe her.

 

Maybe you don’t mean this…

 

I mean, these were Lincoln’s words, right?

 

These were Tris’ words, right?

 

These weren’t your words…

 

But they were…

 

And they are.

 

Sliding your hands up to her shoulders, you push against her, distancing yourself again as your eyes fall to the floor. Unable to even make eyecontact, you apologize, the words flowing easily from your lips. “I can’t,” you say, taking another breath before continuing. Taking one last glance at Costia, you map her features-- the color of her eyes, her pupils dilated against the small beige irises behind them. The curves of her lips as the turn up at the corners, questioning you as you speak. The way that her hair curls around her cheeks. This would be the last time.

 

Turning your back on her, you make your way down the stairs, skipping two when you can, gripping tight to the wobbly, wooden handrail to your right. Once outside, you finally breathe, allowing the warm air of Norman summer to meet your lungs. You hadn’t even realized that you had held your breath until you exhaled slowly, allowing your hands to fall to your knees as you curled over, inhaling deeply.

 

“How did it go?” Lincoln’s voice asks from beside you. Lifting your head, you smile at your brother as he lifts a cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply before offering it to you. “Let’s go asshole. Tris is waiting for us.”

 

Taking the cigarette from him, you follow closely behind, keeping your back to the door behind you.

 

You know there’s no turning back now.

 

After another 15 or so minutes of driving in silence, you make a left turn onto Lindsey Avenue, The Gaylord Family Oklahoma Memorial Stadium coming into view over the hill. “Where are we going?” you laugh, watching the smile spread across your brother’s face as he finally pulls into a parking spot outside of the field.

 

Without answering you, he pulls his uniform shirt over his shoulders, removing it and pulling the plain white tee down around his waist. “Let’s go,” he says, still ofering no answers short of a smile as he exists the truck. You do the same, following closely behind as you circle the stadium, walking quickly and glancing around for others. It’s completely empty-- not another body in sight.

 

“Lincoln?” You ask before you hear a small voice from beside you, your sister bringing a smile to your face.

 

“It’s about time you assholes got here,” she says through the unopened gate, pushing against the metal wires. “Thought I was going to get arrested out here on my own! Shit.” She pushes the handle up, shoving the metal gate open just enough for the two of your to slip through into the darkness of the stadium. “Let’s go.”

 

“Guys,” you laugh with a smile across your face, jogging to catch up to the two of them. “What the fuck are we doing?” When you push your body between them, Tris reaches out her hand, interlocking her fingers between yours, the small bandage across her palm serving as a reminder of your mistakes. Sighing deeply, you hold tight to her hand, the guilt rushing over you.

 

Could you see better, you’d probably notice bruising around her eye from where you hit her.

 

You…

 

You hit her…

 

And it was all your fault.

 

“Hey, you’ve had a hard day,” Tris laughs, pushing open the metal door in front of you, opening the field to you. “We figured you needed to have a little fun.”

 

Through the darkness of the field around you, you could see the paint across the terf, marking the yard lines as they contrasted against the darkened stars above you. Taking a deep breath in, you inhale the smell of fresh cut grass, following slowly behind your siblings as they make their way towards the middle of the field, laughing and shoving each other gently.

 

“Is this legal?” you ask, a smile painting itself across your face. Dropping down beside your sister, you lay in the grass, rolling over on your back to look at the sky with her, the stars mapping constellations across the night surrounding you.

 

“Stop asking questions that you don’t want the answer to,” Lincoln laughs, joining you on your opposite side, sandwiching you between the two of them.  A small laugh escapes your lungs before you inhale slowly, closing your eyes and listening to the sounds of their breathing around you.

 

“Thank you,” you say softly, feeling Tris’ hand find yours in the darkness. Reaching out your other hand, you interlock your fingers between Lincoln’s, pulling his hand tightly against your thigh.

 

You may not be good at living yet, but you could possibly get better-- especially if they’re here to help you.

 

\---

_  
_ **_CLARKE_ **

 

_“Lexa!” Octavia shouts again as you round the corner, your wife pushing past you to exit onto the front porch before you. She continues her sprint down the steps and into the yard with Lincoln as Bellamy and Octavia reach out their hands to stop you, holding you back as you tug against them._

 

_“Let me go!” you argue, pushing and pulling against their arms and gaining no ground. Bellamy tightens his grip, pulling you into his chest as Harper places a hand on your shoulder. Stuck on the porch, you watch as your wife stands beside Lincoln, pulling on his arm as he stands between her and the blond man that you remember seeing in the summer._

 

_“Oh hey there Lexa,” Emerson laughs as he takes a step forward, Lincoln mimicking his stride, pushing Lexa behind him. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you!” The smile on his face and the way that your wife’s name rolls from his lips sends a shiver down your spine. There’s just something about him-- something that makes you want to puke._

 

_“Let’s go!” a far too familiar voice resounds from the black car parked in your driveway. Turning your stare, you catch her eyes just before they look away, her smile forcing another chill through your body. “Oh hey Clarke! I thought Harper had mentioned you, but I thought for sure she was just fucking with me.” your first roommate slurred her words as she hung her body out of the drivers side of the car, motioning towards the woman beside you. “I see you know my ex, right?”_

 

_Bellamy releases you just enough to reach a hand out to Harper, grabbing her hand and pulling it into him. How in the fuck is this happening?_

 

_“Okay, look,” Emerson practically shouts, swaying as he reaches his right hand towards his pocket. “I’m not here for a family reunion or any of that shit. I just want the money that you’ve owed us for a few months now Linc. Okay?”_

 

_Something about that moment began to blur together. Honestly, the ringing in your ears took control and with a blur of movement, you lost track of time. All you knew for sure was that there was a loud crack and then silence-- the kind of silence that dumbs everything around it, numbing you inside until you see Lexa fall to the ground with Emerson._

 

_And all at once, it all floods together. The screaming. The panic in your chest. The speed in which Bellamy pushes away from you. Lincoln’s shouts and Echo’s yells in return._

 

_Lincoln is screaming for an ambulance._

 

_Bellamy is grabbing the gun from the ground._

 

_Harper is crying._

 

_Octavia is rushing inside._

 

_Murphy is dragging you from your arms towards the door._

 

_Emerson is on the ground._

 

_And Lexa…_

 

_Lexa isn’t moving._

 

_And like a freight train, it hits you all at once._

 

_This is not how this was supposed to end…_

 

_With a promise you could never keep._

 

\---

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

**CLARKE**

 

**  
** The 2013 changes to the diagnostic  statistical manual 5th edition claimed that grief that lasted longer than 2 months was technically considered depression. Something is to be said about how individuals travel through the stages of grief differently. What exactly that statement is, you're not sure, but all you know is that every time you place another item into the brown cardboard  box labeled LEXA'S BELONGINGS, another tear finds its way from the pit of your eyes and down your cheek. You never thought this could happen to you. After everything that your family had seen-everything you had seen, you never thought you'd find yourself here, packing up the house that you picked out and she built over the last few years. But you're here now, surrounded by the constant reminders of all that's happened here. The good. The bad. And somehow, everything in between.

 

And even through it all, you’re finding it in you to continue on packing, knowing that in less than an hour, you’d be leaving the town you both called home.

 

Vasovagal syncope. That’s what the called it. And normally it’s not fatal. There are extremely rare cases, but aren’t there always those rare cases. Hell, you were a walking rare case after your car wreck-- a fucking bacteria on a stop sign had you on your deathbed forever while Lexa held your hand-- and now you stand here, in the bedroom that you built, listening to Atom one room over as he played with Bellamy, the distraction that you needed while you waited.

 

Sliding another medical chart in the box, you close the lid, sliding one end over the other to seal up the last of her belongings, sighing as your hand ran itself across the corners of the box, lifting it and placing it on the floor next to the bed.

 

Vasovagal Syndope. That’s what they called it. It’s not normally fatal-- unless there’s other factors at play. Snorting slightly to yourself, you laugh at the thought of it all, feeling her hands wrap around your waist. Vasovagal syncope occurs when your body overreacts to certain triggers, such as the sight of blood or extreme emotional distress. How funny is it that it would take years of knowing your wife to realize that she faints at the sight of blood. How funny is it that you met by breaking her nose and you still never knew? How funny is it that it would take her accidentally shooting a man in the arm almost three years before for you to find out? And how funny is it that the same thing would happen during the birth of your son less than a month later?

 

And how miraculous is it that after everything you’ve seen-- everything you’ve been through, she’s still here, kissing gently onto your neck as you finish packing the remains of your life in Norman, ready to open another chapter in your book.

 

“Ready to go, Doc?” she asks you as you hear the heavy, stomping footsteps making their way into the bedroom, the three year old dark haired boy pushing his way through the cracked door, a curly haired, unshaven Bellamy trailing quickly behind. Atom pushes his way onto the bed, jumping up and wrapping his arms around your neck, pulling your shoulders down slightly as you stumble to hold him.

 

“She’s not a doctor yet,” Bellamy reminds Lexa, wrapping his arms around the both of you with a smile. “But I swear to you, if you don’t come back from that stupid school out East soon, I’m burning this place to the ground, do you understand?”

 

You smile, exhaling slowly as you turn against your wife’s loosening grip.

 

“No, but for real,” Octavia mumbles from the doorway, Lincoln standing directly behind her. “At least once a month, okay?” Lincoln snorts a laugh, pushing past Octavia to grab the last box remaining in your house, lifting it from the floor and carrying it out the door.

 

“That’s a bit of traveling,” Lexa smiles, shoving Bellamy off of her and walking over to the smaller brunette. “But  we will be back for Atom’s birthday next month.” A small laugh escapes her lips as Bellamy huffs angrily, turning his face to you as your son giggles, reaching out for the man.

 

“She acts like I’m not getting married before then,” your old roommate says, taking your son in his arms and bouncing him around on his hip.

 

“Unimportant,” Lincoln laughs as he re-enters the room. “That’s the last of them.”

 

All your boxes are packed and the truck is ready to go, leading you to Connecticut to open what could be the most chaotic part of your life-- but that’s extremely unlikely.

 

Smiling at your brother-in-law, you take a deep breath, exhaling the December air slowly through the open window to your right.

 

Who would have guessed that you’d all be here right now. Who would have guessed that you would have made it this long.

 

Reaching your arms out, you take your dark haired son in your arms, smiling at the eyes of your father that are staring back at you. With that smile still written across your lips, you reach out a single hand, taking Lexa’s fingers in yours.

 

After everything, making it to another December seemed to get easier over time and even if you were leaving Norman behind, you knew you’d have plenty more Decembers with this group of people by your side.

 


	15. UPDATED

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